UC-NRLF 


POEMS  AND 
BALLADS 


HERMANN  HAGEDO^N 


1 


H  IHt 

' 


Hermann  J)ase&0rn 


A  TROOP  OF  THE  GUARD,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS.  Square  i6mo,  $1.10  net.  Postage 
extra. 

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Postage  8  cents. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


POEMS   AND   BALLADS 


POEMS   AND 
BALLADS 


By 

Hermann  Hagedorn 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1912,    BY   HERMANN   HAGEDORN 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  iqiz 


TO 

DOROTHY 


257392 


The  thanks  of  the  author  are  due  the  Editors  of  the  fol 
lowing  magazines  for  permission  to  reprint  the  subjoined 
poems:  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  ft Death  and  the  Lord," 
"Rest  at  Noon" ;  The  North  American  Review,  "Doors," 
"The  Three  False  Women  of  Llanlar";  The  Century, 
"Discovery,"  "Fifteen";  The  Bookman,  "The  Boy  and 
the  Mother,"  "Song  at  Ending  Day,"  and,  under  a  dif 
ferent  title,  "L' Envoi";  and  The  Outlook,  "Music  at 
Twilight,"  "The  Keepers  of  the  Nation." 


CONTENTS 

THE  INFIDEL          ....  3 

DEATH  AND  THE  LORD    .              .              .  .12 

BROADWAY              .              .              .              •  .14 

WINGS          .              .              •              •              •  .15 

MONNA  VITA          .              .              .             .  .22 
DOORS           ......       26 

ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN'S  CHANT  OF  THE  KISS  .     27 

THE  LAST  FARING          .         .         .  .30 

THE  WILD  ROSE    .          .          .          .  .35 

LANEER       .              .              .              •              •  .37 
SONG              ......       45 

DISCOVERY                .               .               .               .  .46 

A  CHANT  ON  THE  TERRIBLE  HIGHWAY  .       47 

CONVERSE  OF  ANGELS       .              .              .  .51 

SONG  AT  ENDING  DAY      .              .              .  .52 

SONG  AFTER  RAIN               .               .               .  .54 

ix 


CONTENTS 

THE  THREE  FALSE  WOMEN  OF  LLANLAR  .       55 

REST  AT  NOON      .  .  .  .  .62 

ARAB  SONG  .  .  .  .  .64 

MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT          .  .  .  .66 

THE  WOOL  GATHERER      .  .  .  .67 

THE  CHASM 68 

THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN    .  .  .69 

HOLIDAY      .  .  .  .  .  .82 

FIFTEEN      .  .  .  .,  ...      85 

THE    RHAPSODY    OF    ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN    FOR 

HIS  BELOVED     .  .  .  .  .86 

THE  MARKETPLACE  IN  PIEVENICK          .  .        92 

THE  DUKE'S  LADYE  .  .  .  .93 

THE  FIGHTING  SCRIBE  OF  IONA  .  .  .96 

"OUT  OF  THIS  CAGE  MY  BODY"  .  .       99 

MEMORY       ......     100 

THE  SICKBED  .....     101 

ANNIVERSARY         .  .  .  .  .    1O2 

THE    PEDDLER      '.  .  .  ,  ,    1O3 


CONTENTS 

THE  DEVIL  AND  ST.  DON  AT       .          .          .105 
THE  HUMMINGBIRD         .         .         .         .110 

THE  LAST  WABANAKI     ..        .         .         .112 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  MOTHER      .         .         .117 
THE  CRIER  IN  THE  NIGHT         .         .         .  120 
THE  KEEPERS  OF  THE  NATION  .          .          .124 
ON  THE  SENATE'S  REPUDIATION  OF  AN  HONOR 
ABLE  COMPACT  .  .  .  .125 

EPITAPH      ......     126 

THE  VIGIL  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO  .  .127 

L'ENVOI    .  ,132 


POEMS  AND   BALLADS 


Hinauf !  Hinauf  strebt's. 

Es  schweben  die  Wolken 

Abwarts,  die  Wolken 

Neigen  sich  der  sehnenden  Liebe. 

Mir  !  Mir  ! 

In  eurem  Schosse 

Aufwarts ! 

Umfangend  umfangen! 

Aufwarts  an  deinen  Busen, 

Allliebender  Vater! 

GOETHE. 


THE   INFIDEL 
(Mexico,  1867) 

High   in   the  palace  a  light  burns  at  the  fall  of 
night, 

Burns  every  eve  of  the  year  like  the  patient  lamp  in 
the  nave; 

And  twoscore  years  have  passed,  but  the  flame  out 
lasts  the  last, 

As  the  grave  outlasts  the  fame,  and  love  outlasts  the 
grave. 

I  WAS  a  rebel  when  they  brought 
Their  pale  Archduke  from  over  sea. 

I  was  a  rebel  and  I  fought 
The  rotting  ages  to  be  free ! 

I  was  a  rebel,  and  my  thought 

Strode  mid  the  shapes  of  things  to  be. 

Wild  years  were  those,  and  I  was  young. 

I  questioned  all  things,  low  and  high. 
The  Devil  or  Saint  on  every  tongue, 
3 


THE    INFIDEL 

And  each  glib,  comfortable  lie 
To  which  the  ardent  faithful  clung 
For  death-bed  solace  by  and  by. 

Devil  and  saint !  Each  from  his  perch 
Twittered  and  wooed  me.    But  I  trod 

A  hill-road  of  my  own,  in  search 
Of  days  beyond  our  six-foot  sod. 

The  Devil  I  laughed  at,  but  the  Church 
I  loathed.    And  yet  I  had  my  God. 

The  Church !    They  scrawled  my  infant  mind 

With  Jesuitics  o'er  and  o'er ; 
They  strove  to  make  me  deaf  and  blind, 

Lest  I  should  do  what  once  before 
Prometheus  did  for  humankind 

And  leave  a  torch  at  each  hut-door ! 

They  foiled  me  there.    But  when  the  war 
Broke  like  a  wreath  of  flames  about 

Their  dreaming  fop  of  Miramar 

And  burned,  and  would  not  be  put  out  — 

I  was  the  whirlwind  and  the  star, 

The  brain,  the  sword,  the  strong  redoubt. 
4 


THE    INFIDEL 

Yet,  while  I  battled  for  the  gleam 
That  lit  To-morrow's  hopeful  eyes, 

Pale  Yesterday  her  dying  dream 

Showed  forth  in  such  alluring  guise, 

Surely  I  could  not  help  but  deem 
That  vision  fair  beyond  surmise. 

A  noblewoman  bred  in  Spain : 

More  exquisite  than  they  who  burn 

Their  loves  out  in  a  flash  of  pain 
With  us.    Like  rose-leaves  in  an  urn 

Her  love  was,  as  in  sweet  refrain 
She  begged  me  to  my  saints  return ; 

She  begged,  and  all  the  glory  dead 
Of  what  was  once  the  Faith  of  Christ 

Shot  like  a  pang  through  heart  and  head. 
And  all  I  loathed,  emparadised 

In  her  high  love,  seemed  wine  and  bread; 
And  hollow  all  that  once  sufficed. 

From  sea  to  sea  through  Mexico 
From  Yucatan  to  Rio  Grande 
With  flaming  ploughshare,  row  on  row, 
5 


THE    INFIDEL 

I  harrowed  deep  my  fallow  land; 
And  ever,  comet-wise,  aglow, 

An  instant  flashed  on  her.    Her  hand 

A  red  church-lamp  kept  ever  lit 
In  the  deep  window-arch  for  me ; 

And  every  twilight  she  would  sit 
And  wait ;  and  far  off  I  would  see 

The  shadows  of  the  church-lamp  flit 
Across  her  beauty  balefully. 

I  went,  I  came;  again  I  went. 

u  Come  once  again,  and  I  will  wed 
My  infidel ;  and  go  content 

Wherever  God  shall  lead,"  she  said. 
And  over  us  with  cloying  scent 

The  lamp  her  scarlet  blessing  shed. 

I  went,  but  as  I  rode  once  more 

Down  from  the  mountains  to  my  mate 

Behind,  the  battle  won ;  before, 
My  dear  love,  beautiful,  elate  — 

A  headlong  rider  came,  who  bore 
Her  letter  :  "  At  the  postern-gate 
6 


THE    INFIDEL 

To-night  stand  sentries.  Draw  not  sword ! 

Your  foes  buzz  round  our  doors  like  flies. 
Your  foes  who  are  my  friends !  Dear  Lord  ! 

I  give  you  much.   So,  love,  be  wise, 
And  bear  at  heart  this  sentry-word  : 

Thy  Faith,  thy  Church!  All  else  is  liesi" 

Beneath  it  all  her  name,  beneath 

Her  name,    a   swift,    large-limbed :   u  Come 

soon ! " 
I  stirred  my  horse.  A  dust}-  heath 

Stretched  right  and  left ;  above,  a  moon 
Hung  like  a  soul  cold  after  death 

In  the  appalling  blue  of  noon. 

Thy  Faith,  thy  Church  !  A  girlish  whim 
To  make  the  portals  where  her  love 

Dwelt  in  far  chambers,  sweet  and  dim, 
On  such  resounding  hinges  move. 

All  else  is  lies  !  The  cherubim 

Some  day  that  argument  might  prove. 

I  galloped,  and  my  heart  ablaze 

With  love  and  what  the  dark  should  bring 
7 


THE    INFIDEL 

Laughed.    "  Lies  ?    What  matter  ?    Faith  ?    A 
phrase ! 

Into  the  sentry's  teeth  I  fling 
The  eight  dead  words  —  the  end  repays 

Full-brimmed  the  momentary  sting." 

I  galloped.  Now  a  heavy  wood 

Enveloped  me  in  stifling  air. 
Thy  Faith,  thy  Church  I  I  felt  my  blood 

Chill,  and  like  pin-pricks  tingle,  where 
The  memories  dwelt.  It  was  not  good 

To  stir  the  tiger  sleeping  there. 

I  galloped.  To  the  dusty  west 

The  sun  bent.  u  Does  she  test  me  thus  ? 

Her   faith?    'T  is   high.     Her   Church?    The 

test 
Is  childish  and  ungenerous  ! 

All  else  is  lies  !  What  priests  infest 
Her  chambers,  making  sport  of  us  ?  " 

I  galloped  on.  The  moon's  pale  wraith 

Brightened,  and  from  the  vales,  the  night 
Like  incense  rose.    Tliy  Church,  thy  Faith  ! 
8 


THE    INFIDEL 

The  ardor  died  in  my  delight. 
I  checked  my  horse,  I  held  my  breath. 
In  dusk  below  me,  cool  and  white 

And  mute,  save  for  the  dogs  who  barked 

Hungry,  incessant,  and  a  bell 
Tolling  a  death  —  her  City,  sparked 

With  light  like  fields  with  asphodel, 
Lay,  and  upon  a  knoll  I  marked 

The  red  church-lamp  I  knew  too  well. 

I  walked  my  horse.  What  scarce  had  seemed 
More  than  the  pang  we  pay  for  bliss 

Gladly  —  grew  monstrous,  till  I  deemed 
All  heaven  at  handclutch  with  the  abyss; 

The  only  God  I  knew,  blasphemed, 
And  sold  to  Caiaphas  with  a  kiss. 

44  Thy  Church,  thy  Faith  I  And  must  I  drown 

The  bold,  exploring  thoughts,  devise 
No  more  my  webwork  reaching  down 

'Neath  hell,  and  up  beyond  thy  skies  ? 
Forget  all  else  save  how  the  clown 

Juggles  three  spheres  ?  All  else  is  lies  1 " 
9 


THE    INFIDEL 

A  clatter  and  a  spark  of  hoofs 

On  pavement  —  twice  a  hundred  yards, 
White  walls  and  grated  windows,  roofs 

Like  cards  laid  flat  on  walls  of  cards  — 
Her  house  !  All  else  is  lies  I  "  The  proofs 

Of  that  be  in  the  sentries'  swords !  " 

I  tied  my  horse,  and  soft  I  crept 

Through  shadow  to  the  shadowed  gate. 

High  up,  the  scarlet  church-lamp  kept 
Its  vigil.  Like  a  voice,  "  I  wait," 

Its  flicker  spoke.   .   .   .  Two  sentries  leapt 
From  blackness,  gloom  made  animate, 

Leapt  and  laid  hold  on  me !  I  flung 

Back  from  their  clutch  and  tore  my  blade 

Forth,  but  they  held  my  arms  and  clung 
Fiercely.  We  scuffled.  Now  we  swayed 

Into  the  moon-path,  now  we  swung 
Against  the  postern,  till  it  made 

Answer  from  groaning  hinge  and  lock. 

"  Password !  "  one  gasped,  and  one,  "Let  be ! " 
I  laughed,  and  with  a  wrench,  a  shock 
1O 


THE    INFIDEL 

Of  head  on  head,  my  blade  swung  free ; 
Thrust,  thrust  again.  They  fell.  A  block 
Of  granite  falls  less  perfectly. 

My  hand  was  on  the  postern's  latch. 

"  Truth  wins,"  I  cried,  "  I  win,  and  sell 
No  tittle  of  my  soul  to  snatch 

My  bird  from  her  cage !  "  But  it  befell 
My  eyes  went  where  a  lamp  kept  watch 

To  pilot  home  an  infidel. 

I  gazed ;  my  hand  dropped,  and  I  stood 
Rigid  before  the  unlocked  door, 

In  spiritual  widowhood 

Sudden  as  death,  for  in  my  core 

I  knew,  and  know,  I  never  could 
Enter  that  happy  postern  more. 

Night,  like  a  care  that  slowly  lifts 
Its  weight  from  the  too  laden  mind, 

Rose  in  slow  beauty.  Silver  rifts 

Came  where  she  went,  and  cooling  wind, 

Dawn,  and  the  day  with  shining  gifts. 
I  rode,  and  cast  no  look  behind. 


DEATH   AND   THE  LORD 

DEATH  touched  the  Winter's  arm,  and  spoke : 
"Faith,  you  are  pleasing  in  my  sight. 

A  thousand  of  this  beggar-folk 

Knocked  at  my  Iron  Gate  last  night."  — 

"  I  starved  the  fools  that  paid  for  fire, 

I  froze  the  fools  that  paid  for  bread. 
I  have  my  human  helpers,  Sire." — 

Death  nodded,  and  "  Well  done,"  he  said. 

"The  old,"  quoth  Death,  "the  white  of  hair, 

That  lived  their  span  and  seek  the  grave  — 
What  prize  are  those  ?  But  these  were  fair, 
And  all  were  young,  and  most  were  brave. 

"  I  saw  them  stiffen  in  the  gloom, 

Waiting,  wide-eyed,  the  tardy  dawn. 
The  huddled  dozen  in  the  room  — 

How  should  they  know  that  one  was  gone  ? 
12 


DEATH    AND    THE    LORD 

"  They  crouched  all  silent,  black  and  grim. 

And  once  I  thought  a  woman  prayed 
Through  tears  a  cursing  prayer  to  Him 
Of  whom  I  once  was  half  afraid. 

"  Poor  Jesus  Christ !    A  gift  to  me 

They  snared  Him,  scourged  Him,  nailed  Him 

high. 
Yet  are  there  times  I  seem  to  see 

His  Face,  and  wonder,  Did  He  die  f 

"  That  was  the  only  Face  that  e'er 

Woke  aught  in  me  but  scorn  of  men. 
Fools,  fools,  mankind !    Who  will  not  bear 
That  Face  against  my  hosts  again ! 

"By  all  the  stinging  tears  that  flow 
Because  of  me,  by  all  the  grace 
That  might  have  been  on  earth,  I  know 
I  could  be  bondman  to  that  Face." 

Death  plucked  the  Winter's  sleeve,  and  spoke: 
u  Christ  is  not  here.    Your  work  is  light. 

A  thousand  of  this  beggar-folk 

Send  whirling  to  my  Gate  to-night." 


BROADWAY 

How  like  the  stars  are  these  white,  nameless  faces ! 

These  far  innumerable  burning  coals ! 
This  pale  procession  out  of  stellar  spaces, 

This  Milky  Way  of  souls  ! 
Each  in  its  own  bright  nebulae  enfurled, 
Each  face,  dear  God,  a  world ! 

I  fling  my  gaze  out  through  the  silent  night  — 
In  those  far  stars,  what  gardens,  what  high  halls, 

Has  mortal  yearning  built  for  its  delight, 
What  chasms  and  what  walls  ? 

What  quiet  mansions  where  a  soul  may  dwell  ? 

What  Heaven  and  what  Hell  ? 


14 


WINGS 

HARK  !  The  wind ! 

Pile  higher  the  fire,  fasten  the  blind. 

It  knocks  like  a  feared  guest, 

It  mocks  like  a  troll, 

It  calls  like  a  weird  guest 

Come  for  a  soul. 

Fasten  the  blind,  the  sashes  — 

Up  the  chimney,  the  wind 

Whirls  the  ashes. 

The  flames  leap  like  dogs  behind  — 

Pile  high  the  logs  — 

The  wind ! 

Listen !  Afar 
In  the  terrible  caves 
Where  the  lost  gods  are 
In  prisons  and  graves, 
Where  Death  the  herder 
Huddles  his  pack  — 
The  bloodhound,  the  brach, 
Demoniac  war 

15 


WINGS 

And  famine  and  murder, 

White  wolf  and  black  — • 

Hear!  Afar 

In  the  hoar  nadir 

Of  a  snuffed-out  star, 

Ymer  the  giant 

Has  loosened  his  rage; 

The  grim,  the  defiant, 

Has  opened  the  doors 

Of  the  terrible  cage 

Where  tumult  roars 

Through  age  and  age 

Like  the  sea  a-wage 

On  iron  shores. 

He  has  lifted  high 

The  cage  in  his  arms. 

Wings ! 

How  they  flutter  to  fly 

The  unborn  storms ! 

Back,  bolt  and  chain ! 

Wings! 

Woe  to  the  lands 

Till  ye  come  again, 

Ye  wings ! 

16 


WINGS 

Warning,  oh,  comrades  of  gales, 
Sons  of  the  tides ; 
Mourning,  oh,  pitiful  brides, 
Watching  for  sails! 

Hark!  What  cry 

Through  the  dark  ? 

First  a  sigh,  but,  mark, 

The  topmost  bough 

Sees  wings,  and  shivers, 

And  the  rose-branch  swings 

And  quivers. 

Now  a  petal  falls. 

Wings  !   And  what  now  ? 

What  murmurs  the  bush  ? 

And  bough,  who  calls  ? 

Now  a  hush. 

But,  oh,  hark  !   The  cry 

On  high  through  the  dark  : 

Wings  from  the  north,  wings  ! 

Wings,  wings  and  wings  behind  - 

Ymer  the  king's 

Birds  of  the  wind  ! 

17 


WINGS 

The  wind ! 

Fasten  the  shutter, 

Bolt  the  blind. 

The  wings  are  a-flutter  — 

Pile  higher  the  hearth; 

The  licking  flames  utter 

Things  not  of  earth. 

How  they  climb 

Toward  their  comrades,  the  birds ! 

What  spells  of  old  time, 

What  magical  words 

Reply  with  their  mutter 

Of  ancient  things 

To  the  moan  and  the  cry, 

And  the  terrible  flutter 

Of  wings  ? 

Hush !  The  wild  legion ! 
What  riot,  what  rush ! 
Tree-top  and  brush 
They  lay  their  mad  siege  on, 
And  over  and  over  they  wheel  — 
Wings  ! 

Bend  to  the  rover  and  reel ! 
18 


WINGS 

Wings! 

Chaos  opposes ! 
Spill  out  your  gems ! 
Scatter  your  roses, 
Fairest  of  stems. 
Wings! 

Bend,  oh,  ye  branches, 
Like  thieves  afraid 
In  the  wake ! 
Now  blanches 
My  tender  maid, 
My  olive,  to  break. 
Sway,  eucalyptus, 
Like  masts ; 
Fling  your  boughs 
Like  rent  sails 
In  the  gale's 
Winged  blasts. 
Ymer  hath  whipped  us 
His  gauge  on  our  brows. 
Hark !  The  carouse 
Of  his  inchoate  rage ! 
Wings ! 

Over  and  through  and 
19 


WINGS 

Whirl,  wings ! 

Anew  the  ruthless  attack 

Hurl,  wings! 

Break,  eucalyptus, 

My  brother ! 

The  wings  have  another 

Soul  for  their  wage. 

Hear  it !  The  wind ! 
Wedge  the  shivering  door, 
Tie  finner  the  blind. 
Wings ! 

The  infinite  sorrow 
Of  broken  things 
Clutches  my  spirit. 
Hear  it ! 
Voices  of  fire 
Crying  high  jubilee ! 
Hear  it,  the  roar  ! 
Do  they  know  there  shall  be 
Fresh  bodies  to-morrow 
To  lay  on  the  pyre  ? 
More  wood  and  more  ! 
Bring  oak  and  bring  redwood, 
20 


WINGS 

Bring  sycamore,  cypress ! 

The  imps,  where  they  lie,  press 

Out  as  the  dead  would 

From  graves  to  attain 

The  air  and  the  stars 

And  their  comrades  again. 

Wings ! 

In  chimney  and  eaves 

What  cityful  grieves 

In  pitiful  murmurings  ? 

Wings! 

Do  they  seek  to  speak  ? 

Draw  closer,  my  mate ! 

They  come  too  near. 

Their  woe,  their  hate  I  fear ! 

Through  the  night  afar,  they 

Cry,  cry  wild  things ! 

Wings ! 

Who  are  they  ? 

Who  are  they  ? 


MONNA  VITA 

COQUETTE  !  And  is  it  flattery  you  ask  ? 
A  chanted  crown,  a  seven-stringed  applause, 
Since  you  press  thus  the  lyre  into  my  hands 
Here  by  this  fountain-side,  while  hour  by  hour 
In  ancient  thickets  wonderfully  sings 
The  holy  nurse  of  hearts,  the  nightingale, 
And  overhead  high  wheels  the  playing  hawk  ? 
Must  it  be  praise,  or  may  I  venture  truth  ? 

She  smiled,  and  then  she  spoke.    "  Tell  me  your 
guess." 

Quiet,  then,  quiet !  Play  not  so  your  eyes 
On  flower  and  tree-top,  earth,  and  through  the  blue 
Unto  the  sleeping  stars.   Let  the  babes  sleep, 
And  let  me  have  those  eyes  a  winged  minute 
To  read,  to  read  !  A-field  once  more !   Coquette ! 
Give  me  your  hand,  then,  let  me  read  the  lines. 
'T  is  a  Minerva's  hand,  a  woman's  hand, 
Though  from  a  helmet  sprung.  Your  sire  was  Jove — 
King,  wizard,  slipper-serf,  philanderer,  god. 
22 


MONNA    VITA 

He 's  dead.  Nous  avons  change  tout  cela  — 
And  we  have  better  wizards,  better  gods; 
You  only  stay  unchanging.  Quiet,  now ! 
Twitch  not  your  hand.  Now  that  I  hold  it  thus 
I  '11  not  release  it  till  it  tells  me  all 
A  hand  can  tell.  A  hand !  Could  I  but  see 
Your  eyes !  Booh !  Hide  them,  then,  who  cares  ? 
Coquette ! 

You  have  more  lovers  than  the  earth  has  men, 
For  even  the  unfleshed  must  love  you  still. 
(There  speaks  the  lover,  now  the  oracle !) 
Somewhat  you  love  your  lovers;  give,  withhold, 
As  gods  and  sovereigns  may,  as  women  must, 
Or  lovers  will  grow  bold,  and  spurn  the  love.  — 
Is  it  to  keep  the  aging  ardor  warm 
You  save  sometimes  your  kiss  for  funerals  ?  — 
You  love  not  much,  I  think,  the  too  hot  heart 
That  would  lay  wifely  reins  and  drudgeries 
On  those  immortal  shoulders ;  nor  not  much 
The  self-assured  and  haughty  mind  that  woos 
Your  tinkling  purse.  You  love  him  most  who  comes 
Eager  and  passionate  from  the  peaks  of  youth, 
Demanding,  where  the  frail  ones  plead ;  and  loves 
23 


MONNA    VITA 

Though  you  withhold,  undaunted  by  your  scorn, 
Knowing  that  deathless  love  at  last  wakes  love, 
And  love  awakened  will  come  forth  with  gifts. 
For  him  you  have  no  anger  and  no  spite. 
You  chide,  you  twinge  his  ear  for  some  rash  word ; 
For  some  too  hot  "  I  will "  you  give  him  tears, 
Crush  him  to  raise  him  higher.    And  ever  yet 
He  loves,  and  loves  more  nobly.    For  you  teach, 
As  women  do,  your  lovers  how  to  love. 
The  lust  dies  in  their  eyes,  the  love  is  born ; 
The  youth  dies  of  youth's  fever;  from  his  dust 
Steps  forth  the  man  with  chastened  eyes  that  ask 
Beauty  and  wisdom,  and  above  all,  calm. 
You  wake  desire  for  music  in  his  heart 
And  answer  the  desire ;  you  teach  his  hands 
To  play  with  pebbles,  and  to  build  with  worlds ; 
His  feet,  to  dance  upon  the  dancing  wave, 
Bleed  on  the  stony  highway  of  great  deeds, 
And  grow  not  weary  of  their  vassalage. 
You  teach  his  soul  to  yearn  for  journeying 
With  his  nocturnal  beckoners,  the  while 
You  teach  his  eyes  to  see  their  stately  march 
Across  an  acorn's  dome.    Oh,  you  most  wise ! 
That  man  shall  love  you  with  a  love  that  fears 
24 


MONNA    VITA 

No  woman's  fickleness ;  for  he  has  lain 
Close  to  your  heart  and  heard  its  rhythmic  beat, 
And  in  quiescent  midnights  woven  his  dreams 
Of  the  spun  glories  of  your  comradeship. 

I  love  you  thus !  Madonna,  kiss  me  now ! 


DOORS 

LIKE  a  young  child  who  to  his  mother's  door 
Runs  eager  for  the  welcoming  embrace, 
And  finds  the  door  shut,  and  with  troubled  face 

Calls  and  through  sobbing  calls,  and  o'er  and  o'er 

Calling,  storms  at  the  panel  — so  before 
A  door  that  will  not  open,  sick  and  numb, 
I  listen  for  a  word  that  will  not  come, 

And  know,  at  last,  I  may  not  enter  more. 

Silence !  And  through  the  silence  and  the  dark 
By  that  closed  door,  the  distant  sob  of  tears 

Beats  on  my  spirit,  as  on  fairy  shores 
The  spectral  sea ;  and  through  the  sobbing,  hark ! 
Down  the  fair-chambered  corridor  of  years, 
The  quiet  shutting,  one  by  one,  of  doors. 


26 


ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN'S  CHANT  OF  THE 
KISS 

I  HAVE  come  home  to  thee 

Out  of  the  world ! 

I  know  thine  arms 

Once  more  beneath  my  arms, 

Thy  brow  against  my  brow, 

Thine  eyes  against  my  eyes. 

The  labor  of  the  day, 

The  heat  is  done  — 

I  have  come  home  to  thee 

Out  of  the  world ! 

Oh,  my  Beloved, 
All  day  and  all  the  clays 
I  mantle  thee 
With  my  wide  love. 
I  serve  thee  with  hands, 
The  light  of  my  brain, 
The  heat  of  my  heart ; 
I  serve  thee  with  my  spirit, 
That  wings  into  far  countries 
27 


CHANT    OF    THE    KISS 

With  thine; 

That  rides  upon  the  spheres, 

Following  thee ; 

That  gathers  the  showering  meteors 

In  upturned  palms, 

That  we  may  muse 

Darkly  over  the  shapes 

Together  in  the  dusk, 

And  ponder  the  eternal 

Whither  and  Why. 

I  have  come  home  to  thee 
Out  of  the  world ! 
After  labor  cometh  rest, 
After  heat,  the  dusk, 
After  the  world,  thy  face ! 
I  hold  thee  close, 
In  my  two  arms  I  hold  thee, 
Thou  universe,  my  love ! 
I  hold  thee 

As  the  calyx  holds  the  rose, 
The  lamp  the  flame, 
As  the  new-moon 
The  darkling  segment 
28 


CHANT    OF    THE    KISS 

That  completes  him ! 

I  press  my  lips 

At  last  upon  thy  lips ! 

Thus,  oh,  my  Beloved, 

The  sunset  gathers 

Into  one  flaming  moment 

The  pervasive  splendors 

Of  the  day ; 

Thus,  oh,  my  Beloved, 

The  morning  star 

Gathers  into  one  silver  cry 

The  scattered  glories 

Of  the  night. 


THE   LAST   FARING 

THE  FATHER 

WHAT  boots  the  fight,  what  boots  the  triumph,  my 
son? 

What  boots  the  foeman  flying  ? 
In  the  ring  of  the  dead  on  the  coast  so  hardly  won, 

Our  King,  our  King  is  dying ! 

THE  SON 
I  saw  him  battle  like  Odin  when  he  conquered  the 

world, 
Alone,  fighting  and  fending ! 

THE  FATHER 

'Twas  a  fleeing  knave  from  the  hill  the  white 

spear  hurled 
That  brought  a  King  to  his  ending. 

THE    SON 

He  speaks  :  "  Not  in  the  earth,  not  in  a  mound 

Like  a  land-king  bind  me ! 
At  the  last  I  would  know  the  wash  of  the  sea  around 

And  the  roar  of  breakers  behind  me. 
3O 


THE    LAST    FARING 

"  On  my  own  swift  ship  never  whelmed  of  man  or 

the  tide 

With  cups  and  weapons  lay  me  ; 
And  the  dead  brought  low  at  my  side  shall  watch 

at  my  side 
And  the  sea  to  sleep  shall  sway  me. 

"  A  storm  is  a-foot  in  the  west !  I  am  dying  —  be 
swift ! 

For  I  would  go  forth  to  meet  him ; 
With  the  light  of  bales  aflare  at  our  prow  as  we  drift 

Triumphant,  triumphant,  to  greet  him !  " 

Look,  oh,  my  father,  they  bear  the  King  to  the  shore. 

On  his  ship,  by  his  tiller,  they  lay  him; 
His  face  the}'  set  west-over-sea  as  of  yore 

And  in  crown  and  mantle  array  him. 

The  dead  that  fought  and  fell  they  lay  at  his  feet. 
But  he  sits  so  still  —  doth  he  slumber  ? 

THE  FATHER 

He  dreams  of  the  feasts  of  Walhalla,  the  mead  and 

the  meat, 

And  battles  without  number. 
31 


THE    LAST    FARING 

THE    SON 

My  father,  what  makes  so  scarlet  and  golden  the  sail 
Like  the  sun  on  a  warrior's  byrnie  ? 

THE  FATHER 

At  prow  and  midship  they  kindle  with  torches  the 

bale 
That  shall  light  a  King  on  his  journey. 

THE  SON 
My  father,  what  shapes  so  stately  move  through  the 

surge 
Like  youths  a  dead  man  bearing  ? 

THE  FATHER 

'T  is  the  naked  mariners  that  go  forth  to  urge 
A  King's  ship  on  its  faring. 

THE    SON 

Look !  On  the  dune  those  silent  shadowy  forms 
A-stare  through  the  daylight  failing. 

THE  FATHER 

They  are  his  oath-friends,  fighters  of  men  and  of 

storms, 

Whose  hearts  are  too  heavy  for  wailing. 
32 


THE    LAST    FARING 

THE    SON 

Louder  and  louder  the  tempest  comes  up  from  the 
west. 

The  bale  burns  higher  and  higher ! 
My  father,  who  gives  at  last  our  King  his  rest, 

Wind  or  water  or  fire  ? 

THE  FATHER 

Into  the  storm  he  drives!  Full  is  the  sail; 
But  the  wind  blows  wilder  and  shriller ! 

THE  SON 
'T  is  the  ghost  of  a  Sea-King,  my  father,  rigid  and 

pale, 
That  holds  so  firm  the  tiller ! 

Wings  as  of  luminous  gulls  are  round  the  prow, 

Dipping,  dipping  and  turning! 
My  father,  why  is  the  sail  not  ashes  ere  now 

In  the  bale-fire's  ravenous  burning  ? 

THE  FATHER 

The  lightning  blinds  me.    My  son,  what  now  do 


you  see  ? 


33 


THE    LAST    FARING 

THE    SON 

'T  is  a  King's  ship  rides  in  splendor, 
Though  the    heavens    sweep   down  with    flaming 

swords  to  the  sea, 
And  the  waves  sweep  up  to  end  her! 

THE    FATHER 

What  crashing  tumult  ?  What  thunder  on  thunder 

hurled 
Out  of  Chaos  that  never  hath  tamed  him  ? 

THE  SON 

The  bolt  of  Odin  hath  rent  the  walls  of  the  world ! 
Walhalla,  Walhalla  hath  claimed  him ! 


"THE  WILD  ROSE" 

(FOR  MUSIC  BY  EDWARD  MACDOWELL) 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  MASTER  SPEAKS  IN  DEEP 

WOODS: 

COME,  oh,  songs  !  Come,  oh,  dreams ! 

Soft  the  gates  of  day  close  — 
Sleep,  my  birds  !  sleep,  streams ! 

Sleep,  my  wild  rose  ! 

Pool  and  bud,  hill  and  deep, 
You  who  wore  my  robes,  sleep ! 

Droop,  East !  die,  West ! 
Let  my  land  rest. 

WToods  !   I  woke  your  boughs  ! 

Hills!  I  woke  your  elf-throngs! 
Land !  all  thy  hopes  and  woes 

Rang  from  me  in  songs ! 

Come,  oh,  songs  !  Come,  oh,  dreams ! 

In  our  house  is  deep  rest. 
Through  the  pines  gleams,  gleams 

Bright  the  gold  West ! 
35 


THE    WILD    ROSE 

There  the  flutes  shall  cry, 
There  the  viols  weep. 

Laugh,  my  dreams,  and  sigh, 
Sing,  and  vigil  keep. 
Call  to  them  that  sleep  ! 
Call!  call! 


LANEER 

THE  blue  was  gone  from  the  lake,  the  blue  was 

gone  from  the  sky. 
Weak  as  though   wounded   fluttered  the   swallow 

that  tried  to  fly. 

A  gale  was  afoot  on  the  hills.   "  We  will  wait,"  I 
said,"  till  it  die." 

She  laughed  her  wonderful  laugh   that  stole   the 

breath  of  fear. 
"  I  have  sailed  these  waters  of  mine  for  many  and 

many  a  year; 
I  have  harnessed  these  wayward  winds.  They  will 

harm  not  me,"  said  Laneer. 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  storm  and  I  love  the  spray 
in  my  face, 

The  wind  in  my  hair  and  the  throb  of  the  wild  and 
perilous  pace, 

With  the  lee-rail  under,  and  Death  half  a  length  be 
hind  in  the  race ! " 
37 


LANEER 

"  You  are  brave,  you  are  strong,  and  you  swim  like 

a  child  of  the  sea,"  said  I. 
"  But  the  white-caps  rise."    She  laughed.    "  Why, 

then  to-day  we  will  fly! 
The  peril  is  half  the  joy,  and  some  day  or  other  we 

die." 

We  reefed  the  rebel  sail,  though  it  fought  as  with 

animate  will. 
Then  out  of  the  cove  and  out  from  the  lee  of  the 

sheltering  hill, 
Into  the  reach  of  the  storm !    The  storm  cried, 

hungry  and  shrill. 

We  tacked,  and  the  fluttering  sail  seemed  to  catch 

its  breath,  ere  the  wind 
Lashed  it  to  labor  once  more.   Far  over  we  heeled, 

and  the  grind 
Of  ring  and  tackle  and  stay  was  clear  through  the 

roar  behind. 

Into  the  crests  we  plunged.  They  swept  us  from  top 
to  toe. 

38 


LANEER 

Then  crashing  into  the  hollow !  Lancer's  wet  cheeks 

were  aglow. 
"  Give  me  the  tiller,"  she  cried.  And  she  steered  to 

the  heart  of  the  blow. 

Close-hauled,  till  the  taut  sheet  groaned,  like  a  gull 

that  hunts  as  she  flies, 
Beaking  the  silver  herring  with  a  clean,  straight 

lunge  from  the  skies, 
We  drove.   She  laughed,  Laneer,  and  two  bright 

stars  were  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  speak,  nor  I.   The  wind  was  too  loud, 

but  I  knew 
A  flame  that  had  never  been  had  burst  in  her  soul 

as  we  flew. 
I  clutched  the  cleated  sheet,  and  watched  the  flame 

as  it  grew. 

And  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  this  was  the  end  for 

which  all  was  made, 
That  we  should  plunge  through  the  storm,  mad, 

eager,  and  unafraid, 
And  see  the  Light  and  be  glad  and  live  or  die  as 

it  bade. 

39 


LANEER 

We  sailed!  And  the  waves  seemed  to  lift  white 
fingers  that  flashed  and  were  gone  I 

And  down  to  the  masthead  swirled  the  vapors, 
ragged  and  wan. 

We  shook  out  a  reef  in  despite,  and  into  the  storm 
sped  on ! 

And  on  o'er  the  savage  waters,  the  spitting  crests 

and  the  shoals, 
We  played  with  the  gale,  and  we  laughed  that  any 

comber  that  rolls 
Should  think  it  could  quench  the  Light  when  it 

burns  in  two  living  souls ! 

But  the  treacherous  winds  of  a  sudden  were  still ;  and 

the  strained,  wet  sail 
Hung  limp.    Like  hawks  we  watched.   Then  down 

from  the  hills  with  a  wail 
Rushed  a  thousand  gales  at  once  on  the  heels  of  the 

vanished  gale. 

Like  a  frightened  hound  the  craft  shivered.  A 
crashing  sea 

40 


LANEER 

Broke  on  the  plunging  rudder,   wrenched  it  and 

wrenched  it  free. 
Into  the  swirling  waters  thundered  the  boom  a-lee. 

Like  straws  the  hungry  deluge  swept  us  over  the 
side. 

Fiercely  up  through  the  surge  we  fought.  "  Laneer  ? " 
I  cried. 

Sputtering,  gasping,  laughing,  "  Aye,  aye,  sir  ! "  La 
neer  replied. 

We  clung  to  the  knifelike  keel.  The  water  was  biting 

cold, 
And  up  from  the  windward  combers  and  ever  new 

combers  rolled, 
And  pounded  us,  tore  at  us,  wrenched  us,  fighting 

to  loosen  our  hold. 

Laneer's  flushed  cheeks  were  pale.  But  she  laughed 

and  her  eyes  were  light. 
"  Why,  this  is  a  lark  to  boast  of  for  many  a  day 

and  night." 
I  could  not   laugh,  for  her  cheeks  were  blue  that 

had  just  been  white. 
41 


LANEER 

"We  must  swim,"  I  cried.  She  nodded  and  tried 

to  smile,  and  her  hand 
Pulled  at  the  oiler  buckles  and  loosened  the  soaked 

skirt-band. 
I  tore  at  her  shoes.  "  Are  you  ready  ?  "  It  was 

hundred  yards  to  the  land. 

u  I  am  ready,"  said  she,  and  her  voice  was  so  faint 

that  I  scarcely  heard ; 
And  painfully  from  the  keel   her  stiffened  fingers 

stirred. 
Into  the  waters  she  glided,  and  sank  with  never  a 

word. 

She  sank !  I  plunged  and  I  clutched  her.  I  clutched 

her  loosened  hair. 
But  my  fingers  were  stiff  and  lifeless,  and  deeper  I 

plunged  in  despair, 
Useless  forever  and  ever  but  to  clutch  her  and  die 

with  her  there. 

I  held  her,  I  held  her  at  last,  I  dragged  her  up  to 
the  day. 

42 


LANEER 

Dear  God,  her  face  was  like  stone,  her  closed  eyes 
stark  and  gray ! 

I  struck  out  against  the  crests  and  choked  the  sud 
den  dismay. 

Shoreward,  inch  by  inch !  And  I  held  her  close  to 

my  side. 
I  was  her  strong  arm  at  last  and  she  my  wonderful 

bride ! 
And  what  God  with  his  tempest  had  joined,  would 

God  with  his  waters  divide  ? 

On,   on,   plodding,   once  more,  struggling,  borne 

over  the  crest ! 
Then  suddenly  dimness,  the  dark  !  And  the  tearing 

ceased  in  my  breast. 
The  treacherous  peace  was  on  me,  and  now  there 

was  only  rest. 


I  move  among  men  again,  and  scarce  I  know  how 
or  why, 

43 


LANEER 

For  a  thousand  miles  to  the  north  placid  the  waters 

lie, 
But  I  hear  ever  the  billows  break  and  the  shrill 

winds  cry  ; 

And  all  day  long  and  all  night  waters  surge  over 

my  head, 
And  I  fight  crests,  and  my  feet  strain  down  for 

something  to  tread, 
And  always  clutched  to  my  side,  Laneer,  close,  close, 

and  dead  ! 


SONG 

THERE  is  a  music  in  my  head. 

By  day  and  night  it  dins  — 
A  far  away,  sweet,  silken  thread 

Of  ghostly  violins : 

Now  like  a  morning  gush  of  sound 
Beneath  the  friendly  eaves, 

Now  like  a  hermit-thrush  caged  round 
By  tender,  laughing  leaves. 

Last  morn  it  was  the  sea  a-surge, 
At  dusk  the  ebb  a-sighing ; 

Last  night  a  low  and  piteous  dirge  — 
I  dreamt  true-love  lay  dying. 

And  now  a  laugh,  and  now  a  plaint 

Of  viols  half  in  tears, 
A  sea-shell  echo,  fair  and  faint, 

Of  distant,  humming  spheres. 


45 


DISCOVERY 

OUT  of  the  Eden  of  my  love, 

The  little  house  so  lean  and  spent, 

The  little  room  where,  like  a  dove, 

Under  the  rafters  lives  my  love, 
Back  to  the  bustling  world  I  went. 

I  wandered  down  the  dusty  street. 

Men  jostled  there  and  wept  and  swore, 
But  in  the  throbbing  and  the  beat, 
The  Babel  of  the  feverish  street, 

Was  something  that  was  not  before. 

Deep  into  each  pale,  passing  face 

I  gazed  in  wonder.  What  strange  gleam 
Had  in  this  gray  and  sordid  place 
Clothed  as  with  glory  each  pale  face, 
And  lit  dim  eyes  with  dream  ? 

Like  an  explorer,  midst  those  eyes, 

By  unimagined  deeps  I  trod ; 
And,  lo !  where  yesterday  were  lies 
And  lusts  in  those  world-hardened  eyes, 

I  saw  the  stars  of  God. 
46 


A   CHANT   ON   THE   TERRIBLE 
HIGHWAY 

I  WALK  these  cold,  gray  streets 
All  day  and  half  the  night. 
Oh,  ugly  shapes, 
Worn  of  disease  and  storm, 
Worn  of  hunger  and  thirst, 
Worn  eternally  by  that  hunger 
That  feeds  on  husks, 
And  wonders  amazed 
Why  it  is  never  stilled ; 
Distorted  shapes, 
Stript,  oh,  long  since 
Of  that  lovely  raiment, 
So  like  the  lily, 
So  like  the  rose, 
The  Creator  at  your  coming 
Laid  on  the  shoulders  of  your  spirits ! 
It  is  rags  in  the  gutter. 
W^ho  will  find  the  dazzle, 
The  immortality, 
47 


A  CHANT  ON    THE  TERRIBLE  HIGHWAY 

In  that  shred  in  the  rinsings, 
In  the  slime  ? 

Oh,  debtors'  prison, 

This  world  of  barter ! 

Where  men  are  penned 

With  their  beloved  and  best 

In  noisome  places, 

Away  from  sun  and  growing  things, 

Away  from  the  chaste  companionship  of  the 

stars, 

Away  from  joy 
That  is  the  bread  of  souls ! 
How  pitifully 
They  waste  their  loveliness, 
To  breathe,  to  eat, 
To  sleep,  and  soon  to  die ; 
Love,  beauty,  faith, 
Aspiring  spirit,  yearning  heart, 
A  feather  in  the  scale 
Against  the  heavy  reckoning 
Of  Necessity,  ghastly  creditor. 
Christ !  Art  thou  crucified 
Diurnally 

48 


A  CHANT  ON  THE  TERRIBLE  HIGHWAY 

For  those  immortal 
Thirty  pieces  of  silver  ? 

Racked,  twisted  shapes, 
Hurrying  like  ants 
Busily  to  and  fro 
Twixt  mole-hill  and  mole-hill, 
How  close  are  you  my  kin ! 
Half  I  wonder 
Am  I  still  myself, 
A  rider  in  the  dawn, 
Or  am  I  you, 
Dark,  voiceless  figure, 
Scurrying  from  wall  to  wall 
Of  your  underground  prison  ? 
Kinsman, 

Who  will  release  us  ? 
You  from  your  burning  pain, 
Me  from  my  seething  pity  ? 
Dreamers,  and  craftsmen 
Who  build  in  lath  and  stucco 
What  the  dreamers  in  marble  devise, 
They  will  minister  to  us 
The  little  while,  oh,  kinsman, 
49 


A  CHANT  ON  THE  TERRIBLE  HIGHWAY 

That  the  outermost  planet  asks 

Wheeling  once  about  the  sun. 

But  the  temple  of  their  laboring 

Shall  become  a  house  loathed, 

A  court  of  doves  and  money-changers, 

A  despotism  to  our  sons. 

Kinsman, 

Our  release  is  not  yet. 

Nor  shall  it  come  amid  shouts, 

The  exhortations  of  loud  tongues, 

Or  the  uprising  of  multitudes. 

Our  release  cometh 

When  the  heart  of  man 

Shall  be  as  a  ploughed  field, 

Awaiting  in  the  cool  dawn 

The  footsteps  of  the  Sower. 

Over  the  vales  from  the  hills 

Rolls  the  day. 

Nothing  is  the  night ! 

In  the  air,  fragrance  ! 

In  the  leafage,  bird-song  ! 

Peace,  and  a  waking  earth, 

Ecstasy,  and  the  footsteps  of  God  I 


CONVERSE   OF   ANGELS 

LISTEN,  Ithuriel.  Do  you  hear  the  sound  of  weeping? 
It  riseth  from  the  Earth,  it  riseth  night  and  day. 
The  noble  hands,  the  noble  eyes  have  gone  astray, 
The  noble  spirits,  born  to  fly,  in  dust  are  creeping. 
Hark !  'T  is  their  hunger.  Thus  they  cry,  awake 

or  sleeping. 
Desire  for  shells  and  bells  hath  made  their  souls  its 

prey  ; 
It  burns  their  youth,  their  dreams,  their  loves,  their 

lives  away ; 
And   of  a  burnt  field,  lo,  no  man  shall  make  a 

reaping. 

Ithuriel,  I  would  that  one  day  from  His  throne 
The  Lord  would  let  me  go  down  to  the  dusty 

plain, 
Crying :  u  All 's  well,  oh,   rebel  man,  save   you 

alone ! 
Be  still,  tumultuous  soul ;  fold  those  hot  hands  that 

strain 

Forever  against  God  !  "  Ithuriel,  might  their  moan 
Not  yield  to  ecstasy,  and  unto  peace  their  pain  ? 
51 


SONG   AT   ENDING   DAY 

MESEEMS  as  though  a  ghostly  light 

Had  round  me  flung  its  beams  to-day  • 

An  airy  mantle,  warm  and  white, 
To  keep  the  cold  away. 
Sad  things  are  of  a  sudden  gay, 

And  in  me  wakes  an  old  delight. 

The  heaviness,  the  pain  are  fled, 
Filled  as  with  music  are  the  rooms 

Where  yesterday  a  human  tread 
Rang  hollow  as  in  tombs ; 
And  all  the  garden  blows  and  blooms 

With  lilies  white  and  roses  red. 

Has  she  returned,  who  went  from  me  ? 
So  near  she  is,  so  strangely  near  — • 

It  seems  that  I  might  almost  see 
Her  happy  eyes,  and  hear 
Her  gentle  chiding  for  the  tea* 

That  wakened  in  my  ecstasy. 
52 


SONG    AT    ENDING     DAY 

Here  by  the  high-walled  garden's  gate, 
Here  is  the  bench  she  loved  so  well. 

Perchance  she  comes  again,  elate, 
Some  mystic  thing  to  tell ! 
My  heart  is  as  a  far  clear  bell, 

Tolling.  I  close  my  eyes — and  wait. 


SONG   AFTER   RAIN 

OVER  the  stars  drifts  the  morning,  oh,  loved  one. 
Tree-leaf  and  flower-leaf  speak.  My  heart  hears 

them. 

All  the  green  world  lifts  one  jubilant  anthem! 
Surely,  oh,  loved  one,  you  cannot  be  far. 


54 


THE   THREE   FALSE   WOMEN    OF 
LLANLAR 

BESS 

IT  's  a  cold,  cold  wind  blows  in  from  the  sea. 

MOLL 
It 's  a  stormy  night  we  shall  have  this  night. 

BESS 

I  Ve  a  bed  in  my  attic.  Come  lodge  with  me. 
I  'm  afeard  o'  the  wind  and  the  wild  moonlight. 

JOAN 

Afeard !  Afeard !  The  dead  sleep  sound. 

MOLL 
Will  they  bury  him  now  ? 

BESS 

Will  they  bury  him  deep  ? 

JOAN 

There  's  never  a  bed  for  him  in  the  ground. 
It 's  high  in  his  rattling  chains  he  '11  sleep ! 

55 


THE  THREE  FALSE  WOMEN    OF  LLANLAR 

MOLL 

I  'm  afeard,  I  'm  afeard ! 

JOAN 

Moll,  hold  thy  tongue  ! 

MOLL 

I  'm  afeard  of  his  eyes  so  straight  an'  still 
A-stare  at  his  true-love  till  he  swung, 
And  she  fell  like  dead  o'er  her  window-sill. 

JOAN 

It 's  half  way  back  to  the  town  we  are  ! 
We  '11  be  lodged  an  hour  before  the  night. 

BESS 

Oh,  her  face  in  the  window  was  like  a  star^ 
As  cold,  as  far,  and  as  ghostly  white. 

JOAN 

The  Devil  made  ye  o'  craven  stuff 
A-tremble  for  ghosts  at  dusk  o'  day ! 
At  the  Magistrate's  ye  were  brave  enough 
When  ye  went  and  swore  his  life  away. 
56 


THE  THREE    FALSE  WOMEN    OF  LLANLAR 

MOLL 

I  was  sick  wi'  love,  and  bad  wi'  hate. 

BESS 

And  't  was  thou,  Joan,  that  made  us  swear ! 

JOAN 

And  now  it 's  done,  and  his  pretty  mate 
Wears  black ;  and  never  a  babe  to  bear ! 

MOLL 
The  dark  comes  soon  to-night. 

BESS 

The  dark ! 

MOLL 

And  it 's  heavy  my  feet  are ! 

JOAN 

The  village  is  nigh. 

MOLL 

And  it 's  here,  Joan,  it 's  here  is  the  Fork 
Where  ye  tempted  us  to  swear  the  lie ! 
57 

* 


THE   THREE    FALSE  WOMEN  OF  LLANLAP 

JOAN 

Quick,  on! 

MOLL 

They  clutch  me ! 

BESS 

Mother  o'  Christ ! 

JOAN 

'T  was  the  wind,  and  the  fallen  branch  of  a  fir ! 

BESS 

Joan,  Joan,  my  feet  are  viced 

In  a  cloven  rock,  and  I  cannot  stir. 

JOAN 
It 's  the  fear  has  got  ye,  body  and  blood ! 

MOLL 
Joan ! 

BESS 

The  fiends ! 

58 

V 


THE  THREE   FALSE  WOMEN   OF   LLANLAR 

MOLL 

They  choke  me  with  hands! 

BESS 
Joan! 

JOAN 

Who  holds  me  ?  Who  plucked  at  my  hood  ? 

MOLL 
They  burn  my  eyes  wi'  their  terrible  brands ! 

JOAN 

What  imps  possess  ye  ?   Come  swift,  come  swift  ! 
Give  me  your  hands ! 

MOLL 
Joan ! 

BESS 

Joan! 

JOAN 
Who  clutched  me  ? 

59 


THE  THREE   FALSE  WOMEN   OF  LLANLAR 

MOLL 

I  saw  the  mountains  lift ! 
And  on  a  gallows  I  saw  a  man ! 

JOAN 

Give  me  your  hands,  I  '11  drag  ye  loose ! 

BESS 

Joan! 

MOLL 

Joan ! 

JOAN 

What  weight 's  on  my  feet  ? 

BESS 

Hangman,  stand  back ! 

MOLL 
A  noose,  a  noose ! 

BESS 

Stand  back  wi'  your  cap  and  your  winding-sheet ! 
60 


THE   THREE   FALSE  WOMEN  OF   LLANLAR 

JOAN 

They  Ve  tied  my  body  with  icy  bands, 
And  it 's  cold  is  my  flesh  and  hard  as  bone  ! 

MOLL 
Joan! 

BESS 

Joan! 

JOAN 

Your  hands,  your  hands ! 
But  the  three  false  women  of  Llanlar  -were  stone. 


REST  AT   NOON 

Now  with  a  re-created  mind 
Back  to  the  world  my  way  I  find; 

Fed  by  the  hills  one  little  hour, 

By  meadow-slope  and  beechen-bower, 

Cedar  serene,  benignant  larch, 
Hoar  mountains  and  the  azure  arch 

Where  dazzling  vapors  make  vast  sport 
In  God's  profound  and  spacious  court. 

The  universe  played  with  me.    Earth 
Harped  to  high  heaven  her  sweetest  mirth ; 

The  clouds  built  castles  for  my  pleasure, 
And  airy  legions  without  measure 

Flung,  spindrift-wise,  across  the  sky 
To  thrill  my  heart  once  and  to  die. 
62 


REST    AT    NOON 

I  have  held  converse  with  large  things ; 
For  cherubim  with  cooling  wings 

Brushed  me ;  and  gay  stars,  hid  from  view, 
Called  through  the  arras  of  the  blue 

And  clapped  their  hands  :  "  These  veils  uproll ! 
And  see  the  comrades  of  your  soul ! " 

The  very  flowers  that  ringed  my  bed 
Their  little  "  God-be-with-you  "  said, 

And  every  insect,  bird  and  bee 
Brought  cool  cups  from  eternity. 


ARAB   SONG 

I  CRY  to  thee  in  the  day,  Love  me ! 

And  in  the  night,  Love  me,  I  cry  unto  thee ! 

Thy  love  is  sun  and  moon  unto  my  being, 
My   nourishment,    my   strength,  my  stair,   my 
wings! 

Love  me,  I  cry  to  thee  in  the  day, 

And  in  the  night,  Love  me,  I  cry  unto  thee ! 

Love  is  a  runner  making  clear  the  highway. 
"  Cometh  the  royal  chair !    Make  room,   make 


room ! " 

Love  is  a  pilot  over  unknown  oceans. 
The  sun  and  stars  fail,   but   Love   keeps    the 
course. 

Love  me,  I  cry  to  thee  in  the  day, 
And  in  the  night,  Love  me,  I  cry  unto  thee ! 
64 


ARAB    SONG 

The  Sphinx  is  mute  to  solitary  suppliants. 
To  close-clasped  hands  she  opes  her  eyes,  and 
speaks. 

Love  me,  I  cry  to  thee  in  the  day, 

And  in  the  night,  Love  me,  I  cry  unto  thee ! 


MUSIC   AT   TWILIGHT 

TWILIGHT,  and  now  the  day 
Ends  as  the  day  began  — 

Purple  and  gold  for  the  heart, 
Stars  for  the  soul  of  man. 

Dawn  saw  the  toil  begin, 

Dusk  sees  the  toil  fulfilled  — 

Now  let  there  be  music  and  song 
Till  the  fevered  blood  be  stilled. 

Not  passionate  thunders  of  sound, 
Nor  statelier  measures  sage, 

But  the  melodies  borne  on  the  lips 
Of  children  from  age  to  age. 

With  the  tinkle  of  bells  in  the  notes, 
And  dew  of  the  fields  on  the  words 

Immortal  as  dawn  and  dusk, 

And  pure  as  the  songs  of  the  birds. 


66 


THE   WOOL   GATHERER 

SURELY  the  watchman  of  my  brain 

At  his  portal  dozes, 
That  I  who  would  fain  upraise  my  strain 

For  the  beauty  her  lifted  veil  discloses 

Can  think  of  nothing  but  roses. 

He 's  shearing  ewes  in  Arcady 

Forgetting  bolts  and  bars. 
Else  why  should  it  be  that  the  words  all  flee, 

And  I  who  would  sing  of  that  spirit  of  hers 

Can  think  of  nothing  but  stars  ? 


67 


THE   CHASM 

THERE  is  a  chasm  in  the  world,  more  dark 

Than  any  carved  of  rivers  and  slow  Time, 
A  murky  horror  in  a  frosty  clime, 

Where  no  sun  peers,  no  pale  moon's  virgin  arc. 

There  Shame  and  Fear,  twin  wolves,  forever  bark, 
Huddling  their  stolen  herd  in  night  and  grime, 
Forsaken  culprits  guilty  of  no  crime, 

Gnawed,  harried,  crushed,  heart-stricken,  hopeless, 
stark. 

Forever  moaning  Why  f  forever  Why  ? 
The  lost  ones  err  about  the  gloomy  damps. 
Too  poor,  too  rich,  too  young,  too  frail  to 

blame, 
They  live  obscurely  and  obscurely  die ; 

For  these  are  they  who  have  burnt  out   their 

lamps, 

Ere  yet  they  knew  what  meant  the  golden 
flame. 


68 


THE   COBBLER   OF  GLAMORGAN 

GLAMORGAN  is  in  Wales,  and  in 

Glamorgan,  free  from  mortal  sin, 

From  Devil,  drink  and  women  free, 

Bold  son  of  Greed  and  Charity, 

Suckling  of  Wisdom,  playmate  of  Mirth, 

Dwells  Evan  Bach,  at  peace  with  earth. 

A  cobbler  who  hath  cobbled  long, 

Pegged  each  hope  and  stitched  each  wrong  — 

Sorrow  to  gain  and  money  to  lose  — 

Out  of  his  heart  and  into  his  shoes. 

He  has  no  wife  to  drive  him  wild, 

No  wayward  brother,  yelping  child, 

Only  a  house  and  settle  warm, 

A  dancing  flame  against  the  storm, 

A  brain  as  green  as  April  grass 

And  the  quickest  tongue  that  ever  was ; 

And  underneath  his  little  stone  house, 

Known  of  none  save  him  and  the  bat   and  the 

mouse, 

A  pot  of  gold,  that  moon  by  moon 
Grows  like  a  patch  of  weeds  in  June. 
69 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

And  he  loves  his  gold  as  he  loves  his  days, 

And  he  twinkles  it  in  the  lanthorn's  rays, 

And  tinkles  it  up  and  tinkles  it  down, 

Tosses  a  sovereign,  bites  a  crown, 

Loves  it  and  leaves  it,  and  climbs  the  stair 

With  a  proud,  but  what  's-itching-my-shoulder  air 

As  though  he  half  feared  that  the  shadows  might 

hold 
Reproaches  for  him  and  his  black  pot  of  gold. 


Now  Evan  had  reached  full  sixty  years  — 
His  hair  was  white  at  temples  and  ears, 
His  body  was  thin,  but  his  eyes  were  sharp, 
And  his  voice  was  clear  as  a  paradise  harp  — 
When,  list,  at  his  cottage  door,  the  lock  • 
Murmured,  and  through  the  dark,  a  knock 
Came  like  a  tap  at  the  door  of  the  mind 
(Locked  and  barred  and  hidden  behind 
Rubbish  and  treasure,  years  unending) 
A  knock  like  the  scarce-heard  whisper,  spending 
Man's  last  dear  gasp  in  a  message  of  love — 
A  knock,  and  a  gentle,  soundless  shove. 
That  night  the  creaking  hinge  was  still. 
70 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

A  gust  through  the  widening  crack  blew  chill. 
Evan  bent  low  o'er  the  half  pegged  shoes : 
"  A  gust  in  the  neck  means  chilling  news. 
Peg  home !  Peg  home !  I  locked  the  door, 
I  bolted  the  window,  caulked  the  floor. 
Peg  home !  Lady  Ellen  wants  her  boot. 
That  gust  again !  And  list,  the  hoot 
Of  the  owl  on  the  blackthorn !  Evan,  peg ! 
And  seven  devils  bewitch  the  leg 
That  wears  the  foot  that  wears  the  shoe 
That  Evan  pegged  while  the  weird  gust  blew." 
He  pegged.  Tap,  tap !  And  a  third  time  came 
The  gust  as  cold  as  the  thought  of  shame. 
He  muttered  the  witch-charm  with  never  a  stammer, 
He  laid  down  the  boot,  he  laid  down  the  hammer. 
He  coughed,  he  turned ;  and  crystal-eyed 
He  stared,  for  the  bolted  door  stood  wide, 
And  on  the  threshold,  faint  and  grand, 
He  saw  the  awful  Gray  Man  stand. 
His  flesh  was  a  thousand  snails  that  crept, 
But  his  face  was  calm  though  his  pulses  leapt. 
"  Come  in,  Gray  Man,"  quoth  he,  "  come  in, 
And  close  the  door,  for  my  coat  is  thin." 
u  Nay,  Evan  Bach,  I  come  not  thither^ 
71 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

And  ye  need  no  coat  -where  -we  go  together" 
"  Come  in,  Gray  Man,  the  fire  burns  high. 
The  night  is  wet,  but  my  settle  is  dry. 
I  Ve  a  jug  of  the  kindliest  rum  on  earth 
And  a  well-baked  pipe  hangs  over  the  hearth. 
So  enter,  and  sit  you  down  with  me." 
"  Nay,  Evan  Each,  where  your  seat  shall  be 
All  night  the  seven  gray  wives  grieve" 
"This  chair,  Gray  Man.  And  by  your  leave 
We  '11  let  them  sing  to  the  yews  and  the  moon. 
Think  ye  not  yourself  ye  come  foolishly  soon  ?  " 
"Evan  Bach  — "    "Nay,  sit."  u /  am  Death!" 

"  Even  so." 

"  I  come —  "  a  But  the  hearth  hath  a  kindly  glow." 
"  Evan  —  "  "  Here,  Gray  Man,  your  cup  of  rum." 
"Come  hither — "  "It  warms  the  heart  that's 

numb." 
"Death  hath  not  time  — "  "What's  an  hour  to 

you 

With  all  time  on  your  hands  and  nothing  to  do  ?  — 
But  to  knock  at  houses  at  dusk  of  day, 
Leave  the  rot,  and  steal  the  gem  away. 
But  I  am  a  cobbler.  I  need  each  minute 
For  the  sixty  precious  peg-taps  in  it 
72 


THE   COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

So  sit  you  down  while  I  finish  the  boot 
For  the  Lady  Ellen's  shapely  foot, 
And  smoke,  and  drink  my  rum  with  me. 
For  the  rest,  Gray  Man,  who  lives  will  see." 
The  Gray  Man  sat  him  down  and  drank, 
And  from  the  room  the  terror  shrank ; 
And  Evan  pegged  the  little  shoe 
Up  and  over  and  down  and  through 
And  stitched  it  in  circles  and  stitched  it  plain 
And  ripped  it  and  stitched  it  and  ripped  it  again ; 
And  spoke  at  last,  as  calmly  as  though, 
He  were  at  meat  in  the  inn  below 
Where  the  brook  from  the  hill  sang  its  elvish  song 
To  the  tippling  farmers  all  day  long. 
He  said  :  "  Gray  Man,  't  is  not  for  me 
To  presume  you  Ve  misreckoned  egregiously. 
Perhaps  you  forgot.  I  'm  a  bare  threescore 
With  a  body  that 's  good  for  forty  years  more. 
A  man  should  work  as  long  as  he  can, 
And  they  need  a  cobbler  here,  Gray  Man." 
And  he  drew  a  new  thread  from  his  hempen  skein, 
And  waxed  it  and  wet  it  and  waxed  it  again. 
The  Gray  Man's  face  had  the  carved  stone's  calm, 
But  he  stretched  to  the  flame  one  bony  palm. 
73 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

"  Evan  Bach,  you  threescore  men  are  proud, 

So  a  threescore  man  to-night  I  vowed 

To  carry  home  -where  the  seven  -wives  "weep" 

u  Let  the  seven  wives  go  home  and  sleep ! 

I  am  young  in  body  and  heart,  and  I  urge 

No  ghostly  ladies  to  howl  my  dirge." 

"  Evan  Each  !  "  —  "  Besides,  there 's  a  threescore 

wretch 

Below  in  Porthcawl  ten  years  a-stretch 
With  pains  in  his  legs,  and  quirks  in  his  hands, 
And  cramps  in  his  belly  and  aches  in  his  glands. 
Be  gentle,  Gray  Man,  and  bid  them  cease. 
Tom  Mirth  is  his  name.  May  he  rest  in  peace ! " 
And  he  hammered  the  sole  like  August  rain 
And  pegged  it,  unpegged  it,  and  pegged  it  again. 
The  Gray  Man  gazed  in  Evan's  eyes 
That  the  hammer  stopped  'twixt  fall  and  rise. 
"  /  -want  a  man  of  soul  and  shape  ; 
Not  a  crooked  weakling  glad  to  escape. 
I  -want  the  neighbors  to  cry  by  your  sod : 
'Behold,  the  visitation  of  God! ' " 
And  the  Gray  Man  turned  his  stony  face 
To  the  hearth,  but  Evan  from  his  place 
On  the  little  bare  bench,  with  voice  like  a  breath 
74 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

Whispered  low  in  the  shadowy  ears  of  Death  : 

"  I  've  your  man,  i'  faith,  I  've  your  man  to  a  T! 

He  's  Dewi  Mawr  o'  Cornelly. 

Out  o'  this  door  you  go,  as  fast 

As  your  legs  will  allow,  and  the  cobblerVlast, 

Up  the  hill  and  over  the  brow 

Where  your  seven  wives  are  wailing  now, 

Then  down,  and  the  second  road,  where  an  oak 

Stands   black,  takes  you  straight  to  the  Cornelly 

folk. 

His  house  has  a  white-thorn.  You  remember  ? 
You  stopped  for  his  wife  there  last  December. 
But  the  rascal 's  married  again.  For  shame, 
Gray  Man,  it 's  the  highest  time  that  ye  came ! " 
44 1  do  not  -want  him  !  "    "^God  in  heaven, 
Who  then  ?  Ned  of  Newton  ?  He  's  seventy-seven. 
Married  three  times,  and  each  wife  a  shrew  — 
You  're  hard  to  please,  or  he  should  do." 
"  Too  old!  "  Evan  lifted  his  hands  in  disgust. 
"  Well,  take   me  then,  dam-me,  if  take   me  you 

must." 

And  he  gave  the  boot  a  last,  fierce  tap, 
And  laid  down  his  hammer  and  reached  for  his 

cap. 

75 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

But  his  hand  in  midair  paused ;  he  stood 

All  motionless,  till  the  truant  blood, 

Home  bound  to  the  heart,  came  back  once  more 

And  tingled  like  pins  at  each  happy  pore. 

He  turned  not  his  head,  but  his  sharp,  brown  eyes 

Like  coast-lamps  under  shaggy  skies 

Swung  slowly  round  till  they  caught  at  last 

The  Gray  Man's  eyes  and  held  them  fast. 

"Evan  Bach,  what  more  ?  "  "  Tssh,  close  the  door. 

A  pot  of  gold  's  neath  my  cellar  floor. 

Three  thousand  pounds  !    How  much  must  I  pay 

To  live  a  hundred  years  and  a  day  ?" 

"  Evan  Bach,  your  gold  I  cannot  use" 

"  'T  was  honestly  pegged  from  the  county's  shoes, 

And  a  bit  of  a  sale  of  a  horse  or  a  sow 

And  milk  and  hens  and  —  you  '11  have  it  now  ?  " 

The  Gray  Man  turned,  and  like  a  wisp 

And  a  sound  as  soft  as  an  infant's  lisp 

He  crossed  the  room.  "  If  I  let  you  live, 

As  you  learned  to  take,  -will  you  learn  to  give  f 

You  shall  have  your  hundred  years  and  a 
But  as  Death  is  a  just  man,  you  shall  pay  ! 
Not  me  !  I  spurn  the  rubbish  !  Spend 

Your  gold  to  feed,  your  gold  to  mend, 
76 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

Till  every  hovel  and  cot  and  hall 
In  Glamorgan,  but  most  in  your  own  Porthcawl^ 
Shall  know  you,  Evan  Each,  and  say, 
'  We  need  you  a  hundred  years  and  a  day?  " 
"  Indeed,  Gray  Man,  indeed,  they  shall !  " 
"  The  Devil  -was  good  -when  he  was  small. 
But  Time  is  a  torrent  -wrenching  down 
The  mightiest  dike  and  the  lordliest  town. 
It  breaks  the  -weak  and  it  twists  the  strong^ 
And  man  it  bears  like  foam  along 
Under  the  cliff 'and  over  the  crag  — 
A  tear,  a  bubble,  a  splinter,  a  rag. 
And  age  on  age,  the  stern  pines  watch 
The  noisy,  grim,  uneven  match 
And  wonder  when  the  man  will  come 
Who  is  more  on  its  surface  than  bubble  or  scum" 
He  ceased  ;  but  Evan's  heart  was  light 
For  the  forty  years  he  had  won  that  night  — 
But  the  Gray  Man  had  vanished  quite. 

n 

The  years  have  passed  as  all  years  will, 

Be  they  swift  with  joy  or  laggard  with  ill  — 

One  long  deep  swell  on  a  sandy  shore  — 

77 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

And  Evan  Bach  is  aged  fourscore. 

His  hair  and  beard  are  new-fallen  snow, 

His  eyes  like  stars  in  winter  glow, 

But  Glamorgan's  shoes  by  night  and  by  day 

He  pegs,  save  at  dusk  when  he  goes  to  pay. 

He  goes  with  his  basket,  he  goes  with  his  purse, 

Buys  quilt  for  the  cradle  and  pall  for  the  hearse, 

Pays  the  priest  for  the  living,  the  dying,  the  dead, 

The  too  young  to  be  wise  and  too  poor  to  be  wed, 

A  bed  in  the  churchyard,  a  hut  in  the  heather, 

A  roof  for  two  fools  to  grow  wise  together. 

He  gives,  though  the  coat  on  his  back  is  shoddy, 

He  gives,  though   it  wrenches  the  soul  from  his 

body; 

And  a  mournful  man  of  sighs  untold 
Is  Evan  at  night  by  his  pot  of  gold. 
But  in  all  Glamorgan  the  good  folk  say : 
"  May  he  live  a  hundred  years  and  a  day !  " 

in 

The  years  spin  on  as  spin  they  must  — 
Rosebud  to  rose,  and  rose  to  dust  — 
And  Evan,  trembling  at  neck  and  at  knee, 
Is  ninety-one,  ninety-two,  ninety-three. 

78 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

But  he  pegs  by  night  and  he  pegs  by  day 
Save  an  hour,  at  whiles,  when  he  goes  to  pay. 
He  goes  with  his  basket,  he  goes  with  his  purse, 
But  he  pays  with  a  phrase,  he  pays  with  a  verse, 
A  a  God  be  wi'  you,"  a  "  Christ  bless  all," 
When  he  stumps  through  the  streets  of  his  own 

Porthcawl. 

And  underneath  his  little  stone  house 
He  holds  each  eve  a  lone  carouse, 
For  the  gold  in  the  black  pot,  moon  by  moon, 
Grows  till  I  fear  't  will  crack  it  soon. 
And  he  tinkles  it  up  and  tinkles  it  down, 
Tosses  a  sovereign,  bites  a  crown; 
"  For  gold  is  heavy  to  carry,  and  thieves 
Are  thick  in  Glamorgan  as  beechen  leaves, 
And  men  are  not  now  what  once  they  were, 
And  the  sticks  a  man  gathers  a  man  should  bear  — 
Their  load  of  pain,  the  shiftless-souled ; 
And  I  my  pot  of  clinking  gold." 
And  down  the  road  a  little  mile 
Goes  Evan  his  debt  to  pay  —  with  a  smile. 

Dusk  !  And  over  the  purple  heather 
Meet  Day  and  Night  and  speak  together. 
79 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

Sleepy  bird  and  sleepy  bough  — 
Where  is  noon's  light  rapture  now  ? 
Purple  shadows,  monstrous  forms, 
Earth  for  thieves  and  sky  for  storms ; 
Music  dumb  and  color  dying; 
Tree-toad;  and  tree-toad  replying. 
Croaks  the  frog  from  dismal  swamp, 
Blinks  the  marsh-fay's  treacherous  lamp. 
Now  the  wind ;  and  like  a  fog 
Rolls  the  night  o'er  wood  and  bog. 

Evan  comes  not  to  Porthcawl ; 
For  the  mist  is  over  highway  and  all, 
And  the  dark  is  thick ;  he  stops,  he  turns, 
His  soul  is  chill,  but  his  body  burns. 
Quoth  he,  "  I  should  have  brought  my  gold. 
Mayhap  I  had  not  felt  so  cold." 
He  climbs  to  his  house ;  but,  lo,  at  the  gate 
He  starts,  for  a  score  of  black  forms  wait 
On  his  garden-path,  and  he  tries  to  speak, 
But  his  tongue  is  lamed,  his  breath  is  weak. 
His  house-door  opens,  a  windy  torch 
Lights  up  the  faces  a-crowd  at  the  porch, 
There 's  Dewi  Mawr  and  Dewi's  son, 
80 


THE  COBBLER  OF  GLAMORGAN 

And  the  Cornelly  neighbors,  every  one, 
And  the  priest,  in  the  torch's  flicker  now, 
On  his  lips  the  Latin,  the  scowl  on  his  brow 
He  keeps  for  the  times  when  he  buries  the  dead 
Or  weds  the  fools  who  forgot  to  be  wed. 
And  Evan  Bach  gazed  still ;  nor  spoke. 
For  out  of  his  door  the  Porthcawl  folk 
Were  bearing  a  body,  slim  and  black. 
The  heavy  door  swung  shut  at  their  back. 
Cried  Evan  aloud  —  but  his  heart  was  a-cower  — 
u  Whom  bury  ye  here  from  my  house  this  hour  ?  " 
Vanished  !  Vanished  —  corpse,  neighbors,  and  all ! 
But  one   cried :  " '  Tis  the  miser  Bach  of  Forth- 
cawl." 

Evan  entered  his  house,  he  sank  on  his  bench  — 

The  air  was  thick  with  a  torch's  stench. 

He  reached  out  his  hands  to  the  hearth's  faint  spark. 

His  hands  met  hands  in  the  shivering  dark. 

He  shrieked,  and  through  infinite  spaces  heard 

The  voice :  "  Evan   Bach,  you  have  broken  your 

word!" 

And  the  stars  that  blink  through  casements,  sighed. 
That  night  Evan  Bach  the  cobbler  died. 


HOLIDAY 

Beneath  the  beech? s  shade  I  read 
My  song  of  passion  and  of  dread  : 
" / like  the  -wild  tale  -well"  you  said. 

"  And  yet  I  "would  that  you  -would  -write 
A  something  else  for  my  delight  — 
A  dancing  thing  in  gold  and  •white?'' 

And  so,  beneath  the  beech's  shade, 
While  round  me  ant  and  zephyr  played, 
I  sat  and  this  light  song  I  made. 

OVER  us  the  sky,  under  us  the  green ; 
Earth  is  serene  and  merry  am  I ! 

All  that  can  smart  hath  taken  wing  — 
What  shall  I  sing  to  touch  your  heart  ? 

Portentous  songs  of  steam  and  steel  ? 
Peoples'  weal,  peoples'  wrongs  ? 

A  world  with  gold  o'erspilled,  o'erflushed, 
Armies  crushed,  nations  sold  ? 
82 


HOLIDAY 

Things  of  a  day  to  come  and  go ! 
Too  fleeting,  low,  for  lover's  lay. 

Sweet,  I  will  lift  a  lordlier  stave 
Of  deep  and  grave,  eternal  drift. 

Of  how  your  eyes  are  blue  as  the  heaven 
That 's  bluest  of  seven  in  Paradise. 

Of  how  your  laugh  is  clear  as  the  stream 
That  Saints  a-gleam  in  Eden  quaff. 

Of  how  your  hands  are  soft  and  kind 
As  the  twilight  wind  in  spirit-lands. 

And  ages  on  when  from  the  deep 
Of  dust  and  sleep  unto  the  sun 

Some  delving  finger  brings  this  lay, 
And  whiles  away  an  hour  to  linger 

In  long-dead  times,  and  faintly  wonder 
What  tale  lay  under  these  light  rhymes, 

Perchance  he  '11  muse :  "  When  that  boy  sang, 
Daily  earth  rang  with  titan  news. 
83 


HOLIDAY 

"  And  men  strove  then  as  none  had  striven, 
And  Space  was  given  as  toy  to  men. 

"  And  there  were  heroes  in  those  ages, 
Knaves  and  sages,  Darwins,  Neros. 

"  And  yet  the  thunder  of  those  great  aeons  — 
Dead  crusts  mid  paeans  bursting  asunder, 

"  Triumphs  that  long  shook  sphere  and  sphere, 
Are  not  so  clear  as  this  boy's  song, 

"  This  tinkling  lute  that  echoes  on 
Though  clarion  and  king  are  mute. 

"  For  nothing  we  dare  to  count  as  proved  — 
Save  that  he  loved  and  she  was  fair." 


FIFTEEN 

(To  A  FACE  ON  FIFTH  AVENUE) 

How  close  must  be  the  city  air 

To  make  your  young  head  droop  so  soon, 
Ere  ever  May's  wild-flying  hair 

Yield  to  the  silken  bonds  of  June ! 

Faded  !   Before  the  bloom,  the  blight ! 

Unshamed,  but  faded !   Where  are  now 
Those  tremulous  glories  that  made  bright 

That  powdered  cheek  and  brow  ? 

Oh,  cheek  that  flamed,  oh,  sparkling  eyes ! 

Was  it  for  this,  that  perfect  mirth  ? 
For  this  the  love,  the  sacrifice, 

The  patience,  and  the  pangs  of  birth  ? 

Faded  !   And  now  the  long  decay ; 

Years,  and  the  hungering  look  behind. 
November  on  the  heels  of  May  ! 

A  crumpled  leaf,  the  whirling  wind ! 

85 


THE  RHAPSODY  OF  ABDIEL-THE- 
SYRIAN  FOR  HIS  BELOVED 

I  WHISPER  it  to  the  sea! 

Oh,  hear  it,  combers  from  afar! 

Hear  it,  oh,  placid  spirit, 

Sleeping  and  breathing 

All  the  long  night 

In  thy  shimmering  silks; 

Hear  it,  brother  of  man  ! 

In  thy  storm,  in  thy  calm, 

In  thy  eternal  ebb  and  flow 

Of  waters,  knowing  not  rest, 

So  like  thy  kin, 

The  tillers  of  unprofitable  soil ! 

I  cry  it  to  the  winds ! 
Oh,  hear  it,  swift-spurring  riders, 
Who  seek  out  with  your  spears 
The  decaying  trees  ; 
As  Justice,  knight-errant  in  armor, 
Seeks  out  the  decaying  souls  ! 
86 


THE  RHAPSODY  OF  ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

Hear  it,  ye  clouds ! 

Marvellous  in  your  manifold 

And  ever-new  beauties 

As  the  heart  of  my  Beloved ! 

Ye,  whom  I  mark 

Born  like  a  goddess  from  azure, 

Growing  till  ye  possess  the  sky 

And  our  up-jutting  summits 

In  inconceivable  kingliness; 

Fading,  dissolving 

In  gold  and  iridescence, 

Leaving  the  sky  as  before, 

Indestructible  azure! 

Hear  it,  ye  who  speed 

Loftily  above  the  first  star 

That  weds  the  Day  to  the  Night ; 

And  thou,  who  liest, 

Purple  and  huge, 

Awaiting  thy  pilot 

At  the  harbor-mouth  of  the  sunset  — 

Hear  it ! 

I  cry  it  to  the  stars ! 
That  speak  in  the  utter  silence 
87 


THE  RHAPSODY  OF  ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

When  the  winds  slumber  and  the  sun, 
And  the  hurrying  thoughts  of  men 
Crackle  no  more,  noisily, 
Through  the  intervening  void. 
I  cry  it  to  ye, 
Companionable  stars, 
Hear  it! 

Oh,  living  spirits,  sea  and  wind ! 
Loftily  errant  kinsmen,  cloud  and  star! 
My  Beloved  hath  spoken  to  me 
In  the  dusk, 

In  the  hour  of  the  large,  first  star, 
Hath  she  spoken  with  me. 
From  between  her  white  breasts 
She  hath  taken  a  key  ; 
With  her  hands  she  hath  unlocked, 
With  her  fingers,  more  soft 
Than  the  apple-blossom 
When  it  falls 
In  windless  noon, 
She  hath  unlocked, 
One  after  one, 
The  doors  of  this,  my  spirit, 
88 


THE  RHAPSODY  OF  ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

That  reaches  up  to  ye,  ultimate  stars, 

Eternally  aspiring 

From  this  lonely  star,  the  world ! 

Into  each  room  she  hath  come. 

Darkness  fled  before  her ! 

Dusty,  forgotten  lamps 

Broke  like  a  red  moon 

Through  vapors ! 

Walls  were  not ! 

Light  was  and  walls  could  he  not ! 

My  Beloved  hath  brought  the  Day ! 

I  was  blind  and  I  see, 

I  was  a  wanderer, 

I  was  a  homeless  man  — 

My  Beloved  hath  led  me  home ! 

Hear  it !  Oh,  windy  reapers ! 

Imperious  brothers ! 

My  Beloved  hath  told  me  my  lineage ! 

All  that  lives  is  my  kin, 

All  that  grows 

Yearningly  sunward ! 

You  are  my  brothers, 

The  clouds  are  my  exquisite, 

Beloved  sisters. 

89 


THE  RHAPSODY  OF  ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

Our  Father 

Is  too  wonderful  to  name. 

Oh,  sea,  oh,  populous  air ! 

I  and  my  Beloved, 

We  are  building  us  a  house ! 

All  crystal  it  shall  be 

The  pinnacled  home 

Wherein  I  and  my  Beloved 

Shall  dwell  together ! 

(The  airy  builders 

Have  begun  their  work  — 

I  hear  the  sound 

Of  laughter  and  crystal  spades, 

Of  singing  and  crystal  hammers !) 

All  crystal  it  shall  be ! 

And  through  the  crystal 

Eternally  shall  fall 

The  splendor  of  the  White  Flame 

That  kindles  the  sun. 

Glorious  shall  be  the  company 
That  communes  with  us 
From  dayrise  to  dayfall. 
90 


THE  RHAPSODY  OF  ABDIEL-THE— SYRIAN 

Our  house  shall  be  a  music 

Of  many  notes 

But  one  harmony. 

Far  shall  our  guests  come 

To  bide  with  us  in  peace, 

Oh,  my  Beloved ! 

Winds,  ye  cannot  escape  us ! 

Stars,  ye  cannot  dwell  so  high 

That  we  shall  not  reach  you ! 

I  have  heard  my  Beloved 

Call  to  you  at  dusk. 

Like  a  sister 

She  hath  called  unto  you  — 

And  ye  have  not  been  mute. 


THE   MARKETPLACE   IN   PIEVENICK 

AT  Pievenick  in  the  marketplace 
The  sun  shone  down  with  waning  glow, 
Where  two  cab-horses,  face  to  face, 
Discussed  with  ponderous  nods  and  slow 
In  melancholy  ruminations 
Time's  ravages  and  shortened  rations. 
Deserted  were  the  streets  ;  no  sound 
Broke  on  the  heavy  silence  round 
Save  the  faint  plash  of  waters  cool 
From  brazen  goose-bills,  gaping  wide; 
And  tongues  of  drowsy  boys,  beside 
The  wet  curb  of  the  shady  pool. 
Over  the  square  a  lone  dog  crept, 
Stretched  in  the  fountain's  shade,  and  slept ; 
And  by  the  sombre  Rathaus  wall 
An  old  fruit-vendor  drowsed  and  drowsed, 
While  bees  hummed  idly  in  the  stall 
And  roundabout  the  green  flies  browsed. 
The  Clock  on  the  Rathaus  pealed  the  hour, 
And  a  gargoyle  droned  from  the  minster-tower; 
"We  do  not  heed  your  foolish  tick 
In  the  marketplace  in  Pievenick." 
92 


THE   DUKE'S   LAD^E 

Peter  of  Mayence  sing's  it  to  his  Bishop  : 

I  HEARD  of  a  Duke  in  Rimini 

(He  is  dead,  my  lord) ; 
A  base  and  a  violent  man  was  he 

With  poison-cup  and  sword, 
But  he  loved  well  his  ladye. 

He  had  a  wife,  oh,  wonder-eyed, 

(She  is  dead,  ah  me  !) 
She  was  young,  and  once  (only  once)  she  cried 

Against  the  Duke's  ladye. 
But  he  gave  her  to  drink,  and  she  died. 

The  Duke  he  wedded  a  kingdom's  heir, 

(Oh,  fair  was  she  ! ) 
She  choked  her  breath  with  her  golden  hair 

Because  of  the  Duke's  ladye 
Who  was  so  noble  and  fair. 

The  Duke  was  cruel,  the  Duke  was  wild. 
(He  ruled  a  wild  countree.) 
93 


THE    DUKE'S    LADYE 

Many  the  sweet  maid  he  beguiled. 

But  ever  to  his  ladye 
He  turned  home  like  a  child. 

He  builded  her  sonnets  and  lover's  lays 

(Like  a  boy  sang  he); 
And  a  moon's-span  oft  of  stainless  days, 

Of  his  marvellous  ladye 
He  sang  the  golden  praise. 

And  he  builded  a  church  in  Rimini-town. 

(Oh,  fair  it  is  to  see !) 
Spirits  and  hands  of  high  renown 

Devised  it  for  his  ladye 
The  fairest,  stateliest  crown. 

Nymphs  and  Pan  and  the  gods  of  old, 

(Not  Christ,  ah  me  !) 
In  line  and  legend  featly  scrolled 

Tell  of  his  high  lad?e 
In  purple  and  scarlet  and  gold. 

Capital,  balustrade,  cornice,  and  wall, 
(That  this  should  be !) 
94 


THE    DUKE'S    LADYE 


His  name  bear,  linked  high  over  all, 

With  the  name  of  his  fair  ladjte 
In  a  deathless  coronal. 

In  Michael's  chapel  tombed  she  sleeps, 

(Oh,  royally!) 
"  Isottx  Divae  "  /  Still  he  keeps 

The  soul  of  his  dear  ladye 
Like  a  pure  star  over  the  deeps ! 

And  still,  the  prayerful  bow  the  knee 
To  a  statue  of  wondrous  grace. 

They  call  him  Michael,  but,  ah  me ! 
The  guardian  angel's  holy  face 

Is  the  face  of  the  Duke's  lad£e. 


THE   FIGHTING    SCRIBE   OF   IONA 

So,  are  you  come  again 

Out  of  your  cave  in  Hell, 

Monster  of  vapor  and  hands  ? 

Over  the  strait  in  Mull 

I  heard  you  howl,  and  I  heard  you 

Wild  on  the  waters  that  crowd 

Past  us  up  from  the  sea, 

Past  us  to  Staflfa  to-night. 

I  heard  you,  fiend,  in  my  soul ! 

I  knew  to-night  you  would  come. 

What  is  your  will  of  me  ?   Speak  ! 
Monster  a-crouch  by  my  lattice  ! 
What  is  your  will  ?  My  book  ? 
Once  more  my  book  ?  Once  more 
My  Patriarchs,  scarlet  and  azure, 
My  thickets,  my  wonderful  angels  ? 
No !  Not  my  book  !  Not  this  ! 
Back  to  your  lattice,  back, 
Palpitant  bag  of  vapors ; 
Fume  of  the  marsh,  with  hands  ! 
96 


THE    FIGHTING    SCRIBE    OF    IONA 

Jehovah,  sitting  on  clouds 
In  sapphire  of  heaven  and  ocean, 
Jehovah  shall  leap  from  the  parchment 
And  smite  you  !  Soul  of  the  Snake, 
Lilith,  mother  of  Cain ! 

Back !  You  shall  break  me  no  more 
My  quills  ;  or  muddy  my  paints, 
Or  with  your  vapors  make  odious 
My  shining  leaves  !  They  shall  cry 
Glory  to  God  in  lona 
Though  nightly  Gehenna  and  Ireland 
Loose  all  their  devils  against  me. 
This  is  God's  work  I  do ! 
Satyr,  in  regions  afar, 
Where  Mahound  in  unlighted  places 
Stalks,  bringing  not  day, 
My  Genesis  shall  carry  the  dawn  ! 
Silence  that  laughter  !  What ! 
Will  you  grapple  ?  Then  come !  Those  hands 
I  fear  them  not !   I  tell  you 
I  fear  those  hands  no  more! 
WTiat  now  ?  Do  you  flee  ?  So  soon  ? 
Coward,  are  you  shaken  at  last  ? 
97 


THE    FIGHTING    SCRIBE    OF    IONA 

Stay,  fiend  !  I  clutch  you  now  ! 
Yes,  writhe !  Spew  round, 
Spew  your  tenebrious  vapors ! 
I  let  not  go  my  hold 
Till  I  have  torn  from  your  breast 
Your  heart  to  make  it  my  ink-pot. 

One  wrench !  Writhe,  for  I  have  it ! 

I  go  again  to  my  book, 

My  Genesis,  to  my  Patriarchs. 

Visitant,  the  blood  from  your  heart 

Shall  make  more  glorious  the  firmament 

Where  Jehovah  rests  amid  angels; 

More  dazzling  the  wonderful  garment 

Of  Jacob  wringing  at  Peniel 

A  blessing  from  God  in  the  night. 


"OUT   OF   THIS   CAGE   MY   BODY" 

Our  of  this  cage  my  body,  out  of  me  like  a  bird, 

Freed  by  the  touch  of  your  fingers,  lured  by  the 
song  of  your  word, 

Laughter  like  sun  on  its  pinions,  tears  like  the  mir 
roring  dew, 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me,  wings  my  soul  unto  the  soul 
of  you ! 

It  lies  in  your  hand  and  it  quivers,  it  quivers  in 

joy,  not  in  fear; 
It  feels  the  warmth  of  your  fingers,  and  hears  the 

heart  beating  near. 
It  feeds  on  the  bread  of  your  silence,  and  buoyant 

and  strong  grow  its  wings, 
And  day  and  night  in  the  light  of  your  love  it  sings 

and  it  sings  and  it  sings ! 


99 


MEMORY 

MOODILY  down  the  street  men  call  The  Years 
I  wandered  visiting  old  friends  and  foes, 
Dear  days,  that  laughed  and  played  with  me,  and 
those 

Scarcely  less  dear  that  shared  unstained  tears. 

And  other  days  that  greeted  me  with  jeers 
I  visited,  sick  days  without  repose, 
That   decked  their    scars    in    bright,   deceptive 
shows, 

And  spoke  of  debts  and  payments  in  arrears ; 

Usurious  days  that  muttered  from  the  dark, 
Pillowed  on  rags,  unhappy,  broken,  old : 

Pay,  pay,  thou  wooer  of  the  far  Sublime ! 
I  cried :  Have  I  not  paid  to  the  last  mark, 
Have  I  not  paid  you  back  a  hundredfold  ? 
Oh  miserly,  inhuman  sons  of  Time  ! 


10O 


THE    SICKBED 

DEAR  heart,  when  thus  I  stroke  your  aching  head 

I  do  believe  the  pain  at  last  must  go. 

For  so  much  love  is  in  these  hands,  I  know 
There  must  be  healing ;  for  hath  One  not  said 
That  love  shall  comfort  the  uncomforted, 

Heal  man's  diseases  as  it  heals  his  woe  ? 

Shall  I  then  doubt  that  I  who  love  you  so 
Can  tame  the  rebel  shades  that  haunt  thy  bed  ? 

Sleep,  my  beloved.    Vaster  love  than  mine 

Grants  these  poor  fingers  power  to  lull  the  ache. 
Through  love  am  I  become  God's  instrument : 
A  harp  whereon  he  breathes  his  high  intent ; 
A  hollow  reed,  made  for  love's  holy  sake 
A  carrier  of  harmonies  divine. 


101 


ANNIVERSARY 

I  WONDER  had  you  wept  or  had  you  smiled, 
Could  you  have  read  the  book  of  things  to  be 
That  summer  dusk  we  sat  beside  the  sea, 

And,  like  the  children  that  we  were,  beguiled 

Our  wiser  sense  to  think  that  we  but  whiled 
An  hour  away  in  casual  company? 
Could  you  have  known  what  now  is  memory 

I  wonder  had  you  wept  or  had  you  smiled  ? 

Men  call  you  happy.    Boldly  I  believe 

That  year  by  year  I  see  the  gladness  grow ; 
Yet  care  and  pain  and  vigils  bravely  kept 
Gauntly  confront  the  joys.    That  August  eve 
Could  you  have  dreamed  the  pain  the  happiest 

know 
I  wonder  had  you  smiled  or  had  you  wept  ? 


102 


THE   PEDDLER 

I  PEDDLES  pencils  on  Broadway. 

I  know  it  ain't  a  great  career. 
It 's  dull  an'  footless  —  so  folks  say  — 

And  yet  I  've  done  it  twenty  year, 
Held  down  my  same  old  corner  here 

An'  never  missed  a  day. 

I  peddles,  an'  I  watch  the  crowd. 

I  knows  'em  —  all  they  say  an'  do  — 
As  if  they  shouted  it  out  loud. 

I  look  'em  through  an'  through  an'  through ! 
By  crabs  !   they  'd  kill  me  if  they  knew  — 

They  are  so  fine  an'  proud. 

I  knows  'em !  Oh,  it 's  in  their  eyes, 
It 's  in  their  walk,  it 's  in  their  lips ! 

They  tries  to  bluff  it  —  but  I  'm  wise  ! 
An'  they're  just  children  when  you  strips 

The  smirk  off;  an'  the  clerks,  the  chips, 
Stands  clean  of  all  the  lies. 
103 


THE    PEDDLER 

I  've  watched  so  long,  I  scarcely  see 
The  clo'es  —  it 's  just  the  faces  now. 

Somehow  I  knows  their  misery, 

An'  wonders  —  when  ?  An'  where  ?  An'  how  ? 

Elbow  an'  shoulder  —  on  they  plough  — 
An'  yet  somehow  they  speaks  to  me. 

I  'm  like  the  priest  —  an'  all  day  long 

They  tells  me  what  they  've  thought  an'  done. 

An'  some  is  flabby,  some  is  strong, 
An'  some  of  'em  was  dead  an'  gone 

Before  they  ever  saw  the  sun.  .  .  . 
I  knows  where  some  of  'em  belong. 

I  peddles  pencils.  Christ !  An'  they  ? 

They  does  the  things  that  seems  worth  while. 
I  watch  'em  growin'  old  an'  gray, 

An'  queer  about  the  eyes,  an'  smile 
To  see  'em  when  they  've  made  their  pile, 

A-totterin'  up  Broadway. 


THE   DEVIL   AND   ST.   DONAT 

THE  Devil  hath  made  him  a  ship 

To  bear  the  sinful  souls ; 
He  hath  made  it  well  of  roots  from  Hell, 

And  sulphur  and  brimstone  and  coals. 

He  cruises  from  midnight  till  dawn 

'Twixt  Severn-mouth  and  Dee  : 
At  one  by  Harlech,  at  two  by  Llanbadrig, 

By  wild  Worm's  Head  at  three  ; 

From  Severn-mouth  to  Dee, 

Dee  to  Severn  again, 
Till  he  picks  up  the  oar-boat  come  from  shore 

With  its  catch  of  damned  men. 

Then  all  night  long  the  good  folk 

That  on  the  seacoasts  be, 
Will  hear  the  Devil  holding  his  revel 

On  his  mad  ship  out  at  sea. 

St.  Donat  lived  in  Pembroke 

And  miracles  many  he  wrought; 

And  the  Devil  and  all  that  come  at  his  call 
By  day  and  night  he  fought. 
105 


THE    DEVIL    AND    ST.    DONAT 

Cried  he,  "  A  shame  I  deem  it 

That  we  should  weakly  stand, 
And  let  a  knave  live  at  peace  on  the  wave 

Whom  we  harry  for  aye  on  the  land." 

He  made  him  a  spear  of  an  ash-wood  tree, 

Of  iron  he  made  him  a  head ; 
And  set  it  in  shrine  for  midnights  nine 

And  holy  prayers  he  said. 

Then  out  from  Llanfihangel 

He  stole  'twixt  the  night  and  the  day, 
Till  the  Devil's  bark  like  a  coal  in  the  dark 

He  spied  in  Gwbert  Bay. 

On  Caemmas  Head,  St.  Donat 

Crouched  o'er  the  harbor-bar. 
No  stars  did  hover  the  black  ship  over, 

And  the  moon  was  fled  afar. 

The  Devil  he  saw  at  the  hatchway 
As  the  reeking  hold  he  crammed. 

'  I  will  wait  till  he  go,"  quoth  he,  "  below, 
To  count  the  newly  damned. 
106 


THE    DEVIL    AND    ST.    DONAT 

"  But  when  the  Devil  hath  gone  below 

I  will  lift  my  bright  spear-head, 
And  save  the  sin-weary  for  the  Virgin  Mary 
And  kill  the  Devil  dead." 

And  lo,  the  ship  turned  slowly 

Forth  from  Gwbert  Bay  ; 
And  St.  Donat  heard  the  music  weird 

Of  the  Devil's  triumph- lay. 

It  slew  the  bird  as  he  fled, 

It  withered  the  leaf  on  the  tree, 
It  clave  the  rock,  and  block  on  block 

Flung  thundering  into  the  sea. 

But  on  Caemmas  Head,  St.  Donat 

Stood  up  with  never  a  fear, 
Though  bats  of  the  air  whirred  through  his  hair 

And  the  winds  clutched  at  his  spear. 

And  he  flung  the  weapon  straight 

As  the  moon  flings  her  shaft  o'er  the  wave ; 
'T  was  a  mile,  I  wot,  that  the  good  spear  shot 

Ere  into  the  hull  it  drave. 
107 


THE    DEVIL    AND    ST.    DONAT 

A  mile,  and  maybe  twain, 

It  sped  with  a  sound  like  thunder, 

And  when  at  last  it  struck,  it  brast 
The  hellish  keel  asunder. 

The  Devil  was  gone  below 

Branding  the  souls  with  his  finger ; 

But  when  he  was  ware  of  the  danger  there, 
Pardee,  not  long  did  he  linger ! 

For  the  waters  (that  are  of  God) 

Leapt  over  the  sinking  rail ; 
The  stays  they  wrenched  and   the  Devil  they 
drenched, 

They  tore  the  black  mainsail. 

The  sinning  souls  outstrewn 

On  the  waves  of  Gwbert  Bay, 
Like  one  they  fled  to  Caemmas  Head  — 

But  the  Devil  he  swam  away. 

St.  Donat  hath  gone  to  glory 

And  sits  at  Mary's  knee  ; 
And  never  the  Devil  holds  his  revel 

'Twixt  Severn  more  and  Dee. 
108 


THE    DEVIL    AND    ST.    DONAT 

But  a  giant  grins  on  Worm's  Head 

Serenely  year  on  year, 
As  he  wipes  his  mouth  with  the  black  sail-cloth 

And  picks  his  teeth  with  the  spear. 


THE   HUMMINGBIRD 

THROUGH  tree-top  and  clover  a-whirr  and  away ! 
Hi !  little  rover,  stop  and  stay. 

Merry,  absurd,  excited  wag  — 
Lilliput-bird  in  Brobdingnag ! 

Wild  and  free  as  the  wild  thrush,  and  warier  — 
Was  ever  a  bee  merrier,  airier  ? 

Wings  folded  so,  a  second  or  two  — 
Was  ever  a  crow  more  solemn  than  you  ? 

A-whirr  again  over  the  garden,  away ! 
Who  calls,  little  rover  ?  Bird  or  fay  ? 

Agleam  and  aglow,  incarnate  bliss! 
What  do  you  know  that  we  humans  miss  ? 

In  the  lily's  chalice,  what  rune,  what  spell, 
In  the  rose's  palace,  what  do  they  tell 

(When  the  door  you  bob  in,  airily) 
That  they  hush  from  the  robin,  hide  from  the  bee  ?  — 
110 


THE    HUMMINGBIRD 

Fearing  the  crew  of  chatter  and  song, 
And  tell  to  you  of  the  chantless  tongue  ? 

Chantless !  Ah,  yes.  Is  that  the  sting 
Masked  in  gay  dress  and  whirring  wing  ? 

Faith  !  But  a  wing  of  such  airy  stuff! 
What  need  to  sing  ?  Here 's  music  enough. 

A- whirr,  and  over  tree-top,  and  through ! 
Hi !  little  rover,  fair  travel  to  you. 

Sweet,  absurd,  excited  wag  — 
Lilliput-bird  in  Brobdingnag ! 


THE  LAST  WABANAKI 

Lappilatwari) 
Lappilatrwan, 
Gray  singer  of  the  dusk, 
High  in  the  birch-tree, 
High,  where  the  squirrels 
Cannot  come, 
Not  the  flying  squirrels  — 
Lappilat-wan, 
I  hear  you : 
"  It  is  twilight. 
Go  to  sleep, 
Birds  and  insects, 
Go  to  sleep, 
Bear  and  moose, 
Go  to  sleep, 

Chiefs  of  the  Wabanakis. 
Braves,  leave  your  hunting. 
Squaws  and  maidens, 
Lay  your  weaving 
In  the  baskets, 
Tend  the  fire 
In  the  wigwam. 
112 


THE    LAST    WABANAKI 

Young  papooses, 
Let  the  little  river 
Flow  by  unhindered. 
Go  to  sleep, 
I,  Lappilatwan, 
Singer  in  the  dusk, 
Say  it." 

Lappilatwan, 
Lappilatwan, 
Why  do  you  sing  ? 
The  birds  have  all 
Gone  to  sleep. 
The  little  birds 
That  sang  to  the  elves 
In  the  deep  forest 
All  day  long, 
To  the  little  elves 
That  slid  down  the  sunbeams 
And  ran  races 
Over  the  shining  hill 
Of  the  rainbow. 
The  birds  have  all 
Gone  to  sleep 
113 


THE    LAST    WABANAKI 

With  the  elves 

That  laughed  in  the  forest. 

There  is  no  more  forest. 

Lappzlatwan^ 

Lappilat-wan, 

Why  do  you  sing  ? 

The  Big  Moose 

Whom  Kuloskap  the  Master 

Called  Kchi  Mus 

He  is  gone  to  sleep. 

Muuin  the  Bear 

And  Malsumsis,  the  little  wolf  — 

Hark,  Lappilat-wan, 

They  do  not  shout 

Through  the  forest. 

They  have  all 

Gone  to  sleep. 

Only  Sexkatu 

The  flying  squirrel, 

The  chipmunk  and  the  woodchuck, 

Only  your  foes, 

Lappilat"wan, 

Still  wake. 

114 


THE    LAST    WABANAKl 

Lappilat-wan^ 

Lappilatwan^ 

Why  do  you  sing  ? 

The  craft}'  chiefs 

Of  the  Wabanakis 

They  have  all 

Gone  to  sleep. 

The  medicine  man, 

The  wizard, 

The  strong  man  with  the  bow  — 

They,  too,  have  all 

Gone  to  sleep. 

The  squaws  are  silent. 

They  have  laid  aside 

The  bright  blankets 

And  the  weaving  of  baskets, 

They  have  gone  into  the  wigwam. 

But  there  is  no  smoke 

Rising  through  the  trees 

Of  the  forest. 

The  fires  in  the  wigwams  — 

The  squaws  have  forgotten  them. 

They  have  all 

Gone  to  sleep. 

115 


THE    LAST    WABANAKI 

Lappilatwan, 

Lappilatwan, 

Why  do  you  sing  ? 

The  braves  and  the  maidens 

They  have  looked 

At  each  other, 

Sadly,  without  smiling  — 

They  have  gone  into  their  wigwams, 

They  have  all 

Gone  to  sleep. 

The  papooses 

Cried  from  the  wigwams. 

They  cried, 

But  now  they  are  still. 

Hark,  Lappilatwan! 

Not  one 

Whispers  to  the  elves 

That  slide  down  the  beam 

Of  the  first  star. 

They  have  all 

Gone  to  sleep. 


THE  BOY  AND   THE  MOTHER 

THE  BOY  IN  THE  CITY 

ALL  day  long,  all  day  long 

Up  and  down  the  streets  I  go  — 

Not  a  face  in  all  the  throng 
That  I  know ! 

Aching  eyes  and  heavy  feet, 

All  day  long  and  days  and  days ! 

Oh,  for  something  good  to  eat, 
And  a  warm  wood  blaze ! 

Fields  are  gray  and  frosty  now, 
Trees  are  stripped,  except  maybe 

For  an  apple  on  the  bough 
All  forgot  —  like  me. 

In  the  house  there  's  smell  o'  pine, 
Where  the  fire  cracks  and  roars, 

And  the  sound  of  winds  that  whine 
Under  floors  and  doors! 
117 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    MOTHER 

And  the  kettle  puffing  hot 

And  her  voice  —  "  Some  kindlin's,  Jack  !  " 
And  —  she  '11  cry  :  "  Oh  !  I  forgot !  " 

But  I  won't  go  back ! 

THE  MOTHER  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

I  sit  all  day  an'  think  an'  think, 

My  hands  they  scarce  can  sew, 
They  lie  here  in  my  lap  like  stones  — 

Why  did  I  let  him  go  ? 

He  might  ha'  worked  here  in  the  store 
An'  earned  enough  for  him  an'  me. 

I  told  him,  told  him,  till  he  cried. 
Somehow,  he  could  n't  see. 

Perhaps,  we  country  folks  is  queer, 

An'  old  an'  sot  an'  dull ; 
But  townsfolk,  they  're  so  rich  an'  bad  — 

An'  he  's  so  beautiful ! 

They  '11  ask  him  to  their  parties,  him 

That  was  so  dear  an'  true, 
An'  make  him  drink  an'  smoke,  an'  do 

The  things  that  bad  men  do. 
118 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    MOTHER 

The  girls  '11  prink  to  catch  his  eye, 
With  hair  all  frizzed  an'  curled. 

An'  mothers  '11  set  traps  for  him, 
Who  does  n't  know  the  world ! 

An'  then  some  fluffy,  city  girl, 
With  just  clothes  in  her  head, 

Will  snap  him  up  away  from  me 
To  love  her  folks  instead. 

I  sit  all  day  an'  think  an'  think  — 
My  hands  they  scarce  can  sew. 

They  're  achin'  just  to  touch  his  cheeks. 
Why  did  I  let  him  go  ? 

THE  BOY 

Up  and  down  the  crowded  street, 
All  day  long  and  days  and  days  — 

Oh,  for  something  good  to  eat 
And  a  warm  wood  blaze  ! 


THE   CRIER   IN   THE  NIGHT 

I  CRY  to  you  through  the  night,  towers ! 

I  cry  to  you  through  the  night,  machines ! 

I  cry  to  you  through  the  night,  oh,  city  of  smoke 

and  roaring !  — 
Where  my  Beloved  dwells 
And  labors  and  grows  wan. 
Day  by  day  in  her  wonderful  eyes 
The  lamp  burns  dimmer; 
Day  by  day,  her  dancing  fingers 
Grow  heavier,  and  her  dancing  feet. 
I  cry  to  you  through  the  night,  ye  inexorable ! 
Must  it  be 

That  she  too  shall  grow  listless, 
Those  eyes  dull,  those  lips  dumb  ?  — 
That  spirit,  eager  as  the  bird, 
Swift  as  the  steed,  sniffing  the  sea, 
Beautiful  as  the  sea  awaiting  the  night  — 
Oh,  terrible  watchmen  at  the  gate, 
Must  that  gold  mote  be  quenched  ? 

What  do  you  answer,  towers  ? 
What  do  you  answer,  machines  ? 
120 


THE    CRIER    IN    THE    NIGHT 

What  do  you  answer,  oh,  city  of  toil  and  weep 
ing  ? 

You  who  chant  by  day 
The  pitiless  power  of  man, 
By  night,  his  awful  grandeur! 
Relentless  Caesars! 

The  multitudes  cry  and  clap  their  hands, 
They  crowd  about  your  chariot, 
They  fling  you  roses, 
They  wind  you  wreaths  — 
But,  oh,  what  of  my  Beloved, 
A  captive  at  your  wheel  ? 

Oh,  potent,  terrible  spirits  ! 
I  flee  from  you,  I  flee  to  the  hills, 
To  the  wilderness  canopied  of  heaven, 
To  the  sunny  vale,  the  peaceful  village. 
The  shepherd  with  his  shorn,  his  bleating  flock, 
On  quiet  slopes 
Companions  me; 

Sown  fields  that  quiver  into  green 
Lie  at  my  feet,  the  clear  church  bell 
Breaks  like  a  star  the  silent  air  of  dusk. 
Dark,  Hesperidean  orchards 
121 


THE     CRIER    IN     THE    NIGHT 

Solace  my  eyes,  my  ears 

Ten  thousand  doves  cooing  in  the  warm  noon.  - 

I  flee! 

Is  it  the  voice  of  my  Beloved  ? 

I  flee  to  the  white  peaks ; 

Vapor  and  gold  is  their  crown. 

Wonderful  heights, 

Brooding  over  the  far  still  lake 

As  Jehovah  over  the  face  of  the  deep ! 

I  flee,  daemons  of  torment ! 

I  flee! 

But  your  runners  are  upon  my  trail ! 

Your  tongues  are  as  the  tongue  of  the  sea. 

Ever  you  call  me,  though  I  flee  from  you, 

Ever  you  call  me,  and  I  return ! 

I  cannot  escape  you ! 

Your  clutches  are  terribly  upon  me ! 

You  are  my  masters. 

But  you  shall  answer,  oh,  towers ! 
You  shall  answer,  machines  ! 
You  shall  answer,  city  of  stripes  and  millstones ! 
There  will  come  a  day 

When  my  Beloved  will  take  my  hand  at  last. 
122 


THE    CRIER    IN    THE    NIGHT 

Out  of  the  ashes  of  our  woe 

We  shall  rise  up  before  you ; 

Without  humility,  without  fear, 

WTe  shall  look  into  your  eyes. 

And  we  shall  cry : 

Lay  bare,  lay  bare  your  hearts ! 

What  is  true  in  you, 

What  is  noble  in  you, 

What  is  enduring  in  you  ? 

Lay  bare,  lay  bare ! 

For  what  is  otherwise 

The  God-in-us  has  risen  to  destroy ! 


THE   KEEPERS   OF   THE  NATION 

(1912) 

CLEAR  o'er  the  turbulence  that  night  and  day 
From  dark  vales  rises  where  men  war  and  weep ; 
Clear  o'er  the  noisy  toil  of  them  that  reap 

Unholy  harvests,  and  the  noisy  play 

Of  idle  souls  that  fling  their  years  away, 
They  heard  a  voice  that  echoed  up  the  deep 
Ravines  of  time  and  would  not  let  them  sleep, 

And  they  arose,  daring  no  more  delay  — 

u  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  "  In  the  streets  were  tongues 

Reiterating  Cain's  accursed  reply. 
But  they  walked  boldly,  heeding  not  the  throngs ; 

And  like  a  trumpet  shivering  the  sky 
Cried  as  one  voice :  "  My  brother  droops  in  thongs ! 

Guide  me,  Lord  God!    My  brother's  keeper 
ami!" 


124 


ON   THE   SENATE'S   REPUDIATION   OF 
AN   HONORABLE   COMPACT 

BLIND  guardians  of  the  glory  of  our  land, 

Defenders  of  our  fame,  what  have  you  done  ?  — 
Crying:  Our  holiest  pledges  every  one 

Are  idle  words  writ  on  the  windy  sand ! 

How  shameless  at  the  judgment  do  we  stand! 
Through  cynic  Europe  hear  the  laughter  run ; 
Shrewd  Machiavellis  mocking  as  they  shun 

The  great  republic  of  the  faithless  hand ! 

Yea,  we  are  great,  but  not  by  juggled  phrases ! 
Yea,  we  are  strong,  but  not  by  troth  denied ! 

The  age  is  full  of  change  and  insecure; 
Hot  in  the  fevered  blood  of  nations  blazes 
The  strife  of  souls.  Only  by  clear-descried, 
Intrepid  equity  can  we  endure. 


125 


EPITAPH 

HUMANITY  and  Valor,  Wisdom,  Faith, 

Keep  watch  beside  him,  Truth  makes  smooth  his 

brow. 

His  days,  his  deeds  stand  shining  round  him  now. 
Against   such   guards  what  power  hast   thou,  O 

Death  ? 


126 


THE   VIGIL   OF    PADRE   JUNIPERO 

(San  Diego,  March,  1770) 

DAWN  !   And  over  the  peaks,  over  the  serried  wall, 

Day,  the  silver,  the  flame-born,  spreads  out  her 
wings  through  the  blue  ! 

What  folk  is  astir  so  early,  what  hammers  impa 
tiently  fall, 

Waking  the  bird  from  his  slumber,  heavy  with 
poppy  and  dew  ? 

What  mariners  row  what  burdens  to  their  ship  ere 
break  of  day  ? 

What  cowled  one  kneels  so  early  on  the  hill-top 
over  the  Bay  ? 

Heroes  have  come  from  the   south,   heroes    have 

striven  and  failed. 
The  Cross  of  God  on  high  they  have  raised,  but 

raised  it  in  vain. 
Hunger  and  thirst  are  potent,  though  the  breast  be 

stoutly  mailed. 
"  We  will  turn,"  quoth  grave  Portola,  "  at  dawn 

home  to  New  Spain. 
127 


THE   VIGIL   OF    PADRE   JUNIPERO 

We  have  dreamed  a  noble  dream,  but  the  dream 

was  not  to  be  ; 
And  I  must  save  the  Spanish-men  that  trust  their 

weal  to  me." 

Calm  is  the  voice  of  the  Padre :  "  We  are  God's 
men.  Shall  we  fear  ? 

I  follow  God's  dream,  not  mine,  and  God  knows 
no  rebuff. 

God  who  loves  His  wilds,  will  feed  His  pioneer. 

God  rules.  Relief  will  come.  God  rules.  It  is 
enough." 

"  Relief!  "  Portola  cried.  "The  relief-ship  is  lost, 
I  say!" 

Cried  the  Padre:  "  One  day  more !  "  Quoth  Por 
tola  :  "  So  be  it,  one  day !  " 

Day !  And  who  kneels  so  mute  on  the  hill-top  over 

the  Bay  ? 
The  mariners  load  their  bark,  the  stores  lie  heaped 

on  the  strand. 

Blue  and  unclouded  bends  over  the  world  the  day, 
Waking  each  canyon  to  life  in  the  beautiful,  terrible 

land. 

128 


THE    VIGIL   OF    PADRE   JUNIPERO 

Shouts,  and  hurrying  steps,  shriek  of  tackles  and 

wheels ; 
A  bell  through  the  long,  hot  hours,  a  shape  in  the 

sun  that  kneels] 


Noon  is  over  the  world,  silence  is  over  the  Bay. 
The  mariners  rest  from  their  labor  in  shadow  of 

mast  and  tree. 

Silence  is  over  the  soul  of  one,  who  dares  not  pray 
Lest  the  whispered  want  in  the  heart  bring  back 

mortality ; 
Or  the  seeming  need  of  the  cry,   the    passionate, 

pleading  word, 
Break,  like  thunder,   the  crystalline  walls  of  the 

house  of  the  Lord. 

Dusk !  And  up  from  the  sea,  the  gray  soars  over  the 

gold. 
The  bark  in  the  harbor  is  laden.  The  quivering 

canvas  is  up. 
But  the  cowled  one  lone  on  the  hill-top  kneels  like 

a  knight  of  old, 

Keeping  his  breathless  vigil  beside  the  glowing  Cup. 
129 


THE    VIGIL   OF    PADRE   JUNIPERO 

And  "/  believe!"  speak  the  folded  hands  on  his 

breast;  but,  lo, 
The  eyes  that  stare  o'er  the  sea  to  God,  they  cry : 

"I  km!" 


Night !  The  world  is  asleep  and  the  stars  sing  over 

its  bed. 
Soft  as  a  song  the  south-wind  carries  the  odors  of 

even. 
But  to  one,  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  stars,  are  as 

words  that  are  said, 
Flown,  and  faded  forever  in  the  infinite  ether  of 

Heaven. 

And  God  is  all  that  was,  or  is,  or  ever  can  be  — 
Save  one  white  sail  somewhere  that  climbs  the  rim 

of  the  sea. 

Once  more  breaks  the  purple  bowl  and  spills  the 

liquid  light ! 
What  rapture  cries  to  the  dawn  ?    What  figures 

dance  on  the  strand  ? 
On  the  hill  the  Watchman  kneels,  and  the  sun  is 

his  aureole  bright, 
130 


THE   VIGIL   OF    PADRE   JUNIPERO 

As    he  murmuring    slips  the    beads    one    by   one 

through  his  hand. 
Over  the  waves,  the  wakened,  the  sun  flings  his 

glimmering  trail  — 
Kindling  to  starry  silver,  a  lone,  white,  hastening 

sail! 


L'ENVOI 

TO-NIGHT  on  Madagascar!  shores  dark  hands 
Are  lifted  to  the  wide  benignant  sky. 

To-night  where  green  oases  with  the  sands 

Of  Libya  mate,  dark  hands 
Are  lifted  up  on  high ; 

Are  lifted  up  in  yearning  through  the  bars 

That  keep  man's  soul  in  exile  from  the  stars. 

To-night,  on  Himalayan  slopes  a  voice 

Over  the  world's  white  roof  takes  its  high  way. 
In  parched  valley,  ice-imprisoned  bay, 

Where'er  men  toil  and  suffer  and  rejoice 

Unto  the  stars  a  voice 
Leaps  like  the  day. 

To-night  in  every  hamlet  of  Cathay, 

Forgotten  Orkney,  lost  Domingo,  hark, 

A  voice  !  that  cleaves  the  daylight  or  the  dark 

In  wonder  or  dismay. 

To-night  in  cities  old  and  new 

Where'er  men  strive  and  feel  the  yoke, 
A  voice  aspires  through  dust  and  smoke 
132 


L'ENVOI 

Seeking  the  calm,  untarnished  blue. 
Laughter  and  pain,  passion  and  sweet  delight, 

Glory  and  wrong ! 
Hark,  how  they  seek  the  friendly  stars  to-night 

In  song ! 

Oh,  lucid  stream  struck  from  the  rock  of  Life 

By  thirsty  spirits,  homeless,  over-bowed ! 

Bright  wires  of  sunlight  in  this  frame  of  cloud, 
Given  of  the  first  departing  day  as  he  went, 

To  his  golden  wife, 
Earth,  the  bereaved,  bewildered,  for  lament 

Of  tears  forever  rife, 
And  solace  eloquent. 

Oh,  strange  telegraphy  that  links  man's  soul 

To  bird  and  tree,  tempest  and  whirling  sphere ! 

Tell  me,  what  is  the  rose  ? 

Tell  me,  what  is  the  wind  that  blows  ? 

Tell  me,  what  is  this  music  that  I  hear 

Forever  heavenward  roll  ? 

Bright  miracle  of  song  ! 
High  alchemy ! 

We  hear,  and  are  made  strong, 
133 


L'ENVOI 


We  sing,  and  are  made  free ! 
We  sing  to  heal,  exalt,  defy, 
We  sing  we  scarce  know  how  or  why ; 

Only  we  know 

When  the  heart's  barriers  overflow 
That  we  must  sing  or  die. 

Song!  To  the  stars  a  glorious  symphony 

Blent  of  the  million  little  songs  goes  forth  ! 

The  anthems  of  the  singers  of  the  north, 
The  cry  with  lifted  hands  by  tropic  sea  ; 

The  West's  loud  call,  the  Orient's  dirge 

In  one  glad  surge 
Of  heavenly  melody ! 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 

U   .   S   -   A 


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